New York. Dark Night. Dangerous City. Pretty Woman. Not-A-Good-Mix. In the back streets of N.Y.C. a flower of a woman (or seemingly so) clack, clack, clacked along the concrete pavement, clutching her hand bag to her chest and pulling her tan trench coat around her. There were several signs that she wasn't in the best of shape. Her heels were scuffed and worn down and the heel had been replaced, her panty hose had runs in it, and she had bags under her black eyes. Her skin was very fair and her hair was very light which made those dark, dark eyes stand out all the more. They were like dolls eyes, she had been so run down they had no life in them at all. Her nose was tinged pink as if she had been rubbing it a lot; and she was tottering on her heels like her feet hurt. She shielded her eyes from the brightness of a neon sign which was the back of a restaurant. the front of the restaurant was on the strip and it was pretty classy but when you're in he back alleys you remember that its got its dark sides too. The chefs weren't all high class and snooty. They were artists. some were stuck up of course. But not most.

Out from the back alley, a young cook came out from the busy kitchen. Where anyone who was close could smell the different intoxicating aromas had filled the air from the loud and busy kitchen. The aspiring chef walked out carrying a giant bag of garbage that smelled like the left over’s from hell. Tossing the grease infested bag to the dumpster, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. "Comes with the territory I guess." He muttered to himself then placed it in his mouth, but didn't light it. "Can't smoke this crap! It'll kill me one of these days." He reasoned with him self, unaware of the onyx orbs currently observing his behavior.

The fair haired woman watched the young chef come out and she blinked at him. Slowly coming closer into the light of the neon sign; the colors bouncing off her fair skin and hair.
"They'll kill you but the only question is of when. All men have to die." She said with a small smile, not quite looking at him. under her trench coat there was a white dress. Her eyes held a distant kind of contemplation and worn down wisdom. "You don't have to smoke just because your job dictates it. I don't do a lot things that my job dictates me to. I don't wear spandex, I don't wear make up, I don't wear ridiculous heels...but as you can see...I also don't make much money. But....behind closed doors eh?" Street wisdom from a hooker...The thing that every honest working person was dying to hear… Not.

"And what is it that you do miss?" The young chef asked, looking at the cigarette and then tossing to the side of the street alley way. He looked at the New York sky as he leaned against the grim covered walls, not caring about the foul smell at all. Then he looked at the woman and her white dress not saying anything, but just studying her blankly with eyes that couldn‘t, or wouldn‘t, judge.

"Well..." She shrugged and smiled alittle."I'm a ho." That was the best and easiest answer she could give. She looked over to the area of abandon and picked up the cigarette he tossed a way, wiping it off. "They're expensive you know?" She said, putting it into her purse. She was obviously in a bad spot and her stomach gave a loud growl as she could smell the food from the kitchens; she hadn't eaten anything for at least two days.

"Expensive or not, those things are bad for you." He smirked, taking out a lighter and flipping it open,
lighting the flame. Closing it, then flipping it open again; closing, opening, closing, opening. "Well that explains the one thing. . . ." Then he heard her stomach growl, "Be right back." He said, going back in and minutes later came back out with a plate full of food."Bon appetite ." The cook said with a smile, holding it out to the tired, hungry prostitute.

The woman blinked curiously at him, taken aback as he offered her food. She blinked at it again as if confused and looked at it and then behind her as if there was someone else he was offering it to. She took the food with shaking hands and smiled at him. "Th-thanks..." She said, still seeming confused by his generosity. She pulled up a milk crate and sat down on it, keeping her legs closed, trying to stay decent despite her indecent job. She looked down at it, it was grilled chicken and pasta in some kind of cream sauce. She ate with her fingers. It was possibly the most delicious thing she had ever had. "So....what’s your name?" She asked him, licking some of the white sauce off her thumb.

The young chef smiled, looking on at the New York moon that shone it's light in the back alley streets, providing the light in the entire place, second by the neon sign. “ The name's Jose but people just call me Jessie." He turned and looked at the woman, smelling the scent of her dime store perfume and lotion fused with the aroma's of the food. "And what is your name?" He asked as he stared at her with interest.

The light of the moon and the neon sign above Jessie’s head reflected off her white dress, tingeing her whole being red and blue. "Jessie....that’s a nice name. Out here I go by Morning Glory. 'You feel the glory the next morning' ." She recited in sarcastic way. "But my names Lucinda Gloria Harris. Though, you can call me Lucy." she said, holding out her clean hand to him. she was well washed and seemed to put pride into her personal hygiene, something rare among those of her profession. Probably she got so little work because nobody thought she was a hooker. "The food is delicious."

As passing cars drove past by with the headlights appearing with red and white streaks, the cars moved on past the open streets on either side.” Lucy . . ." The young chef lightly grabbed her hand and gently kissed it. "Pleasure to meet you Lucy . . . You know . . . I like the hair in the moonlight." He mused as he sat down and leaned against the brick wall while he started at the moonlight.

She blushed softly as he kissed her hand and giggled a little. No man was so courteous to her. EVER. Even when they didn't think she was a hooker, they still thought of her as a run down woman not worth a second thought. She watched him sit and continued to eat, pausing at his comment. "Thank you..." she said softly, looking away, she couldn't help but wonder why he was being so nice...Lucy wasn't a religious woman, but was this man an angel? A saint? A gift of god? Maybe, maybe not. But for now he seemed as human as she was and she smiled at him. "What is a kind man like you doing in a cruel city like this?" she asked, licking some cream sauce from h e corner of her mouth.

The young cook smiled, laughing a bit even as he continued to stare at the moon. Looking at it as it mesmerized him, almost as if he was under it's spell. Then stared at the woman, "Me . . . heh, I'm just trying to go my own way and if I'm lucky make a name for myself. Maybe even earn the title of chef, just like all the greats." But sometimes he whenever was not submerged in the chaos that was the kitchen, he would ask himself.  What does it mean to be a chef?   Was it the way they run the kitchen? The hat? Or just the way they cooked? Or was it something else.

She looked up at the moon herself, so big and white hovering over them, so pure and perfect. "That’s why I came here. Well, not to be chef obviously. But...-" She pause dot laugh softly, shaking her head at herself.” Its cliché. Its stupid." She said, not wishing to disclose the reason she came to the city in the first place. Its was probably a story told a million times before...and would be told a million times again. Each time by a girl like her. So her story was nothing special or different. just the same one told again and again. But it was still her story. It didn't matter about the other girls and boys who were so desperate. It wasn't their life.

He sat back up, his curiosity and interest were both peaked. Motioning his hand as if he was smoking a cigarette, giving his hands something to do because as the cook, no, as the chef that he was, he always kept his hands moving. "No go on. Even if you think it's a bit cliché, it isn't stupid . . . especially if its a dream that you have." He glanced at moon once more, then looked back at the woman with her white dress reminded him more about the moon. Then finally said to her with a docile look. "Everybody's got to
have a dream after all."

She giggled a little and realized her plate was empty. She put it next to her feet and licked her fingers clean. Even her fingernails were painted white. "I wanted to be on Broadway." She said, grinning. "I wanted to sing and dance, and I did for a short while! It was amazing to be on he stage with all those people. but pretty soon they started threatening my job as they started making cuts, the producer offered me a short cut to staying on board. So I became his little call girl. One night I came over and he a big pile of white powder. being such a young idiot I didn't know what it was until he got violent and shoved my face into it. After that I wasn't a call girl. I was a slave. He finally tossed me like an old rag doll and I had to work out here." She said, rubbing her arms. "I told you it was cliché. This city is hard and cold like the steel its built on. I have come to see...That every city in which the moon no longer lights it at night, and it gives way to the to the neon signs that man worships more than god. You will find the despair of a
million people in comparison tot he happiness of one." Slowly her black eyes, which set upon him suddenly began to look like craters in her soul. Two craters on the moon. Like someone had impacted it with all their strength leaving her scarred.” And the cruelty of a million people...To the kindness of one." She reached out her hand far enough so that ther finger tips laid gently upon his knee.

He frowned a bit as he heard the woman's sad story. He also knew that times were tough, that in this cruel world it wouldn't be surprising that one man did indeed crushed the dreams of others to obtain his own happiness. Just like an empty vodka glass, the world was a cold place. And for some reason as if something was drawing him to her. The young cook reached his hand out and gently touched the fingers of her soft, silky hand. "Cold hands . . ."

"Cold world." She replied immediately, looking down at his own hands which were chapped and burned and covered in small cuts, all over abused but well loved. She scooted forward on her crate and slid her hand in his, grasping it softly. His hands were so strong and warm, like a light, like the sun. "And yet yours are so warm." A true and genuine smile crossed her lips and its was as bright and luminescent as the moon that hung over them. She truly seemed to glow in this dark and starless back alley, just like the New York sky.

"Well in the inferno that I call I kitchen, you can't help but get burned." He replied back with a gentle, docile smile. He scooted forward and clasped her hand, sending his warm thought from his hands to hers. "Maybe this will keep you warm." He said pulling her soft gentle yet cold hands bit forward and poured his breath on their hand, gently rubbing his finger on hers, tracing the imprints that was her fingerprints.

The warm and intimate gesture made her flush once more but she did enjoy the relieving warmth of his breath on her five pointed grabbers. She then slowly pushed her hand up through his to encase his face, rubbing his cheek with her thumb. "You don't deserve the cruelty of this world, Jessie. You need a home. Not a jungle. People call this place heaven...But I may as well say, its warmer in hell. " She slowly stood and ran he hand down his face as she did. Some life returning to those black eyes of hers. Like the sun gives the moon the light it needs to lead men through the nights darkness. He had given her the life she needed to get through another one of those dark nights and perhaps rest through another busy day.” Thank you, Jessie. For the food, for your kindness. You will see me again. But for now we must retreat back into our own worlds. You must face the fires of hell...I must face the cold of heaven. But we will both meet in this back alley as saints on earth." She pulled her hand away and turned to leave, walking off into he darkness but still glowing like the moon, no longer so stiff and tense and cold. "Good bye my angel, good bye my saint!" she called out, grinning to him before turning the corner and walking out of the alley, out of his life, and disappearing into he crowds of the muddled steel jungle. The heaven beyond earth where a man could loose himself in pleasure unknown and unlimited. And where the moon is forgotten and the sun is hidden, where man is god, and in the back alley there are only saints.