It was then that Rosa, with her forehead in her hands, suddenly remembered her mother, the church in her village, and her first communion. She felt as if she had returned to that day when she was so small, completely enveloped in her white dress, and she began to cry.
—Guy de Maupassant: “La Maison Tellier”
I woke up thinking the day would unfold just as I had planned the night before. I would take the bus 11 to Government Centre; I would search for and find a shop that sold postcards to send to my friends in Austin, Montreal, Rozenburg, and Tours; and I would spend the afternoon at Bayfront Park, watching the passersby and the cruise ships in the harbour, admiring the sky, the sea, and the palm trees while reading the novel I was engrossed in, “Snow Falling on Cedars”. When I got hungry, I would grab something to eat at Bayside Market; then I would stroll along Brickell Avenue until I reached the Rickenbacker Causeway, where I would arrive at the William Powell Bridge. There, standing on the bridge, I would wait for the sunset. In short, it was meant to be a relaxing day. However, things didn’t turn out that way. An unexpected event disrupted my plans. I don’t usually encounter situations like that, and when I do, fear often prevents me from acting. I don’t have the bravery to confront it directly.
I had a difficult time finding them, the postcards, that is. Other than the popular tourist spots, few places carry them these days. But that wasn't my only problem, as I also needed stamps. I asked at a few souvenir shops, but none had any. I also had to locate a mailbox, and none seemed to be in sight (What’s wrong with the U.S. Mail?). In the end, I found a UPS Store where I was able to mail my postcards.
I then headed towards Biscayne Boulevard. Upon reaching North East 2nd Avenue, I spotted her. There she was, standing, casually leaning against the wall and smiling at me. That caught me off guard. It felt strange; women don't usually look at me like that. I assumed she might be soliciting money, so I looked down and quickened my pace. When I was finally close enough, she tried to stop me.
“Hey!” she called out. “Do you have a moment?”
“I'm sorry,” I replied, avoiding her eyes. “I'm in a hurry.”
I ignored her and continued on my way. As I approached the corner, the traffic light turned red. During those few seconds of waiting, her face lingered in my thoughts. Once the light changed to green, it suddenly hit me. “What a fool I am! Of course, she's at work! No wonder she was smiling at me,” I realized. “Honestly, I don’t have much experience with situations like this one,” I thought, trying to make sense of my confusion.
I felt deeply moved and, for no apparent reason, anxious. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Overcoming my hesitation, I decided to do something I had never attempted before: I turned to face her. She remained in the same spot, still looking at me and smiling. With a sense of shyness and moving slowly, keeping my eyes lowered, I moved closer to her. Once I was at her side, feeling embarrassed, I kept my gaze fixed on the ground. I took a quick glance and noticed she was a young woman, neatly groomed, adorned in an elegant, fitted dress that gracefully fell just below her knees.
“How much do you charge for an hour, ma’am?” I stammered, blushing and avoiding her gaze.
“Two hundred dollars,” she replied.
“Alright,” I agreed.
“We can go to my apartment, which is nearby. I promise it's a clean place,” she explained. “Or we can go wherever you'd like.”
“I'm heading to Bayfront Park,” I said, my voice still low and hesitant. “I just want you to keep me company.
“Seriously?” she asked, surprised.
“Absolutely,” I assured her.
“Okay then!” she exclaimed, still skeptical. “You’re the one footing the bill.”
After crossing Biscayne Boulevard, we entered the park, walking side by side along the winding paths, without exchanging words or glances. There were just a handful of people nearby: a couple strolling hand in hand, another pair kissing by a palm tree, and a few mothers supervising their children in the playground. The radiant sky, the towering clouds, the blue ocean, and the gentle breeze brushing against my face calmed me down.
“What brings you here?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“I'm staying for three months,” I replied.
“If you're feeling so lonely, why are you doing it?”
“It’s winter where I currently live. For six months, it’s dark, with sub-zero temperatures, frigid storms, and piles of snow. I had to migrate south, like the wild geese. I didn’t have anyone to join me, so I came by myself.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Our language has a wealth of words for describing winter phenomena: snow, snowflake, slush, snowfall, blizzard, whiteout, freezing rain, ice, black ice, ice storm, drifting snow, and wet snow.”
“Holy cow!” she exclaimed. “What were you doing in Flagler?”
“I was trying to find a store that sells postcards to send to my friends. It took me a while to track one down. Don't people send postcards anymore?”
“These days, folks snap pictures with their smartphones and share them via WhatsApp. It's super convenient. The downside is that many end up sending photos of every little moment. It's as if they can't disconnect; their vacations and everything they do only seem to count if everyone else is in the loop. There's this overwhelming need to broadcast our experiences to the world.”
“I still prefer the old-fashioned way,” I responded. “My friends enjoy getting a postcard from a faraway place, signed by a friend. It brings me joy too. It feels meaningful. Don't you agree? Wouldn't you like to receive postcards from your pals?”
“I don't have any friends,” she replied with a hint of sadness in her voice. “And even if I did, they'd likely just do what everyone else does and send me pictures from their phones via WhatsApp.”
“What’s your take on this city?” she pressed on.
“I like it. The tropical landscape is stunning; the ocean and beaches are spectacular. Yet, it’s a place of stark contrasts, with great wealth on one side and extreme poverty on the other. Right there, under the interstate highway overpass, there’s a community of homeless people living in tents. But then again, I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Where I live we deal with the same problem. The homeless individuals are not the problem; it’s the difficulty in finding the political will and resources needed to help them improve their situation. It’s a disgrace, not just for them but for society as a whole, that allows such things to happen. We squander an absurd amount of money on trivial matters.
“Here, the situation is only getting worse. Some of the causes include gentrification, illegal immigration, the growing inequality between the wealthy and the poor, corruption, and the collusion between politicians and corporations,” she remarked, grimacing in disapproval. “Do you just want me to keep you company? Wouldn’t you prefer to have some action instead?”
“I just want you to keep me company so we can chat,” I stressed.
“Don't you find women like me attractive?”
“I have nothing against women like you. The fact that I'm here with you proves it, doesn’t it?”
“True, but we’re just talking. Would the idea of being intimate with me disgust you?”
“Let's just say that right now, I simply need some companionship.”
As we strolled along the park paths, I couldn't help noticing how much she stood apart from the crowd. While everyone else—both locals and tourists alike—wore T-shirts, shorts, jeans, and sandals, she was elegantly dressed, with her hair and makeup perfectly done, as if she were on her way to a party. I suggested we sit on a bench near the statue of Julia Tuttle, and she agreed. I took a seat at one end of the bench while she settled at the other.
“I’ve noticed you only glance at me from the corner of your eye. I can sense what you’re thinking right now. Everyone is curious about why and how an eight-year-old girl, who just had her first communion, ends up in prostitution.
“No, I don’t want to know,” I lied. “I’m not interested. It’s none of my business”. However, she continued speaking as if she hadn’t heard my words.
“My name is Rose. I’m from Louisiana, from a little town called Belle Fontaine. An old variant of French is still spoken there; I grew up speaking that language. As a child, they called me Rosa la Rousse because of my red hair. After I finished high school, I didn’t go to college. I wanted to escape the dull, provincial life of Belle Fontaine. I was raised in a repressive family of religious zealots that regarded everything as a sin. I longed to break free from that as well. I suggested to my boyfriend that he come with me, but he wasn’t interested; in fact, he chose to end our relationship. He admitted he was seeing someone else. Sadly, after that, I fell in with the wrong crowd. I drifted for a period, living on the streets; then I took a job at a massage parlour, later moved on to a strip club, and ultimately found myself doing what I do now.
“Look, you don’t need to share anything with me. I’m not judging you.”
“But deep down, you’re curious, aren’t you?”
“Well, I’ll admit that I am. I do have some questions, if it’s alright for you to talk about your work.”
“Yes, it is alright. I don’t mind.”
“There are many terms used to refer to women in your profession: whores, hookers, barmaids, cabaret girls, streetwalkers, prostitutes, women of the night, escorts, call girls, and sluts. What do you prefer to be called?”
“Those are all very hideous, offensive, and insulting words. I prefer the term ‘sex worker’. It sounds much nicer.
“Are there many people in this city making a living like you do?”
“Yes. I suppose it’s a… I was going to say ‘a social problem’, but for many of us, it’s actually a good thing. Here, the situation isn’t as desperate,” she continued. “In other places with greater poverty, many women turn to this activity for survival, literally to feed their children, like Fantine in Les Misérables.”
“How do you handle your life? Do you have a… let’s call it… a manager for your business?”
“No. I’m independent. I have my own apartment. Occasionally I work for an escort service. Clients call in, speak with a secretary, set up an appointment, and specify their preferences, and I meet them at their hotels. This arrangement is safer, although the escort service takes $100 from each booking. Some girls operate in private apartments where the owners keep half of their earnings. Most of us are in this line of work for financial reasons.”
“Do you enjoy your work?”
“To be honest, no,” she sighed. “I do it for the money. Every now and then you encounter a decent guy who not only pays well but also makes the experience pleasant while treating you with kindness. But there also are times when you are mistreated. Many of us resort to drugs to cope with this job.”
“Do you really do it out of necessity? You mentioned it yourself; we’re not in a poor country here.”
“You're right about that. But the lure of money is incredibly strong.”
“How do you keep yourself safe? I imagine you sometimes end up in risky situations.”
“I always carry a gun in my bag. Want to check it out? It's legal.”
“Uh, no,” I answered. “Don't the police ever give you any trouble?”
“Not usually; they often look the other way, or you slip them a bribe. But you need to be careful: there are times when you run into a jerk who wants to exploit the situation.”
“Do you think legalizing your profession would improve your working conditions?”
“Many of us hope that the government will acknowledge this work and officially recognise it as a legitimate job. If they do, we would be able to pay taxes and receive benefits, like retirement plans. Women would register. The authorities would regulate our work, conduct health inspections, provide vaccinations, and similar services. Some individuals could generate income by establishing private, clean, and safe clubs, allowing women to avoid roaming the streets in hostile and dangerous neighbourhoods. Moreover, some of us could transition into businesswomen, employing secretaries. We would set up our enterprises in designated areas, similar to the Red Light District in the Netherlands. Did you know that prostitution is legal there?”
“Yes.”
“It’s better that way. Don’t you agree?”
“I’m not sure. I have mixed feelings.”
“Why? What are you uncertain about? In the Netherlands, women work in a much safer environment. If anyone attempts to assault them, they can easily contact the police for help. Making it legal would help eliminate pimps and allow for better regulation of underage prostitution. In that country, the minimum age to engage in our profession is 21. At that age, one has more confidence and is better equipped to make critical decisions, especially regarding complex matters like sex work. This regulation could also help put an end to forced prostitution and human trafficking. Despite this, some, including myself, prefer to remain anonymous; it’s still a sensitive matter to disclose how one earns a living, especially to family.”
“Many people believe that your line of work is immoral and do not want the government to legalize it.”
“The opposition primarily comes from religious groups and feminists who believe that prostitution should not be considered a legitimate job and should be eliminated. I consider that to be a great injustice. Recently, a colleague of mine was arrested for engaging in prostitution and sentenced to a month in jail. Just think about it. The ruling classes get away with all sorts of crimes, such as tax evasion and colluding with corporations. They invade other countries and steal, plunder natural resources, leaving ecological devastation in their wake; they set up puppet regimes that persecute, torture, and kill dissenters; they bomb and kill civilian populations, including men, women, and children. Tell me, who among them is in prison paying for their crimes? No one! So, why should that young woman be locked up? Does that seem fair to you?
“No,” I replied, surprised by the strong sociopolitical critique she had just delivered. “What would you say is the most detrimental aspect of your work?”
“The emotional aspect. It's challenging to lead a normal life, make friends, or attend a party. What could I say if someone asked what I do for a living? That I'm a prostitute? There's also the impact on my romantic and sexual life. We're human, and we need affection. But the best I can aspire to is having a good friend. I could never have a genuine partner, because, even if he accepted my profession, we could never share an intimate relationship. You end up losing your sex drive, as sex turns into a task, something you do all day or all night as part of your job."
“Having a day job, like being a tour guide, for instance, could be helpful.”
“I guess so.”
“Do your parents in Belle Fontaine know how you make a living?”
“No, they don’t.”
“Will you ever tell them?”
“My mother passed away when I was still a teenager, and it would be really difficult to tell my father the truth.”
“What would you do if you became pregnant? Would you consider having an abortion?”
“I did it once. I wouldn’t want to go through that again.”
“And if you had a child, how would you handle that?”
“I would need to switch careers.”
“Have you ever considered returning to school to learn a different trade that, while maybe not as lucrative, could be more fulfilling and less complicated?”
“Yes, I have.”
“I’m a bit hungry and could use a coffee. There’s a lovely bakery at Bayside Market that also serves excellent coffee. I’d like to invite you. Would you like to join me?”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
After we left the bakery, I led her under the iconic Bayside Banyan Tree, which, at the moment, was deserted.
“The hour's finished,” I said, glancing at her sideways. “Here are the two hundred dollars, just as we agreed.”
“Actually, you don’t have to pay me,” she said hesitantly, her voice wavering and her eyes cast downward. “I didn’t really do anything.”
“On the contrary! I assure you that there are connections that are far more intimate and enjoyable than intercourse. Take the money; it's yours—don’t be silly.”
I grasped one of her hands in mine and placed the money, which she was reluctant to accept, into her palm. I forced her to close her fist around it.
“Thank you. Best of luck!” I said abruptly, avoiding her eyes, before quickly walking away.
While I stood waiting for the traffic light to change on Biscayne Boulevard, I felt a burning sensation on my back, as if someone were intensely staring at me from behind. Once again, a wave of anxiety and confusion washed over me, and a strong desire to look back hit me. For a brief moment I hesitated to do so. But when I finally worked up the courage to turn around, I saw her exactly where I had left her, looking intently at me, as desolate as the banyan tree. At that moment, I noticed she began to walk slowly towards me. As she reached my side, I was finally able to see her face clearly. I examined her carefully. Oh! She seemed so young and so innocent! Her eyes were brimming with tears, and I felt a lump rise in my throat.
“Listen, every Wednesday afternoon, I come to the Bayfront Park to read, and I always sit on the same bench,” I stated seriously and a bit abruptly. “If you’d like to continue our conversation about the world's injustices and the criminals in power, you can wait for me there, by the statue of Julia Tuttle.”
Her expression brightened, she smiled for the first time, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
“Then… I suppose… I’ll see you later,” I said, feeling troubled, as though a mechanism that was going to disrupt the routine of my life had been activated against my will, leaving me powerless to stop it.
The traffic light turned green, and I rushed across the street. Once I reached the other side, I paused and couldn’t resist the urge to turn around to look at her. She was standing there, on the opposite side of the street, looking at me. When the light was green again, she started crossing over to me. Upon reaching me, she appeared a bit lost and restless, clearly eager to talk but uncertain about what to say.
“What are you going to do now?” she managed to ask.
“I’m heading to the William Powell Bridge to watch the sunset.
“Can I come with you?” she nearly pleaded. “I won’t charge you.”
“Sure,” I responded. “But what about your job?”
“I can take a day off from time to time, can’t I?”
In Biscayne Bay, the land is situated to the west, which means the sun does not sink below the ocean’s horizon; it doesn’t leave behind the brilliant golden trail across the water that enchants those of us who admire this natural phenomenon. Instead, it sets behind the city, specifically beyond the Vizcaya Museum or Brickell. Just as no two snowflakes are alike, no two sunsets are the same. This particular sunset was unique. The celestial blaze created by the dying sun behind the skyline painted the clouds—cumulus, cirrus, and stratus—hanging over the city with vibrant hues of red, orange, and yellow. To enhance the visual delight, this canvas was mirrored on the watery strip separating the bridge from the city, with Rose's presence completing the scene.
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© Translated from the Spanish by William Almonte Jiménez, 2026
© Spanish title: “Rosa La Rousse”
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2023
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