The Homeless and the Bitch

Uptown girl Randi Wright sees anybody lower on the ladder as a toy with no warranty. She’s taking a leak right where Bill Bailey sleeps because, well, the night air feels fresher here than anywhere the maids bother to scrub. Zero guilt. She fishes a single dollar from her clutch, drops it on the puddle, and arches her foot—slender, smooth, smug—like she’s renting out a throne. The smile she shoots his way says, "lick and thank me, beggar." Bill stares. A car horn yelps in the distance. She hasn’t broken stride yet.