The hard part wasn’t getting them home.
Rosario had never had any trouble getting people – men, women, those of non-binary status – to come home. A smile, a suggestion, a wiggle of properly-toned ass, that was all it took. Everything about Rosario’s body, club wardrobe, make-up; it was all designed with the hook, the line, and the sinker in mind.
The hard part wasn’t getting them to come back.
Unlike some pick-up artists, Rosario liked second dates, third dates, long walks on the beach and expensive dinners out. Sometimes, Rosario would even be the one picking up the check. Loss leaders. It all paid out in the end.
The hard part wasn’t getting them to fall in love.
Rosario was good at the game, and good at the love part. The right look, the vulnerable face, the careful uncertain words. That was the first step, the easiest step.
Then came the opening-up. The true stories about childhood. The sleeping over, which left mornings when Rosario was most vulnerable, and, sometimes, the most confused.
Then came the whispered – always true – confessions of love. “I think I might love you,” usually. Or “I never say this sort of thing” (that part wasn’t true), “but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
That wasn’t the hard part, either. And it almost always worked.
The pay-off came then. Rosario lived on love, ate it up, devoured it. And when they fell in love, there were days at the shortest, weeks, months at the longest, where the meals just kept coming in. Like an all-you-can-eat banquet full of Filet mignon and lobster.
The hard part came when they ran out of love.
They’d stop calling. They’d stop coming by. They’d avoid Rosario in the clubs. They would avoid eye contact, change their number, change their address. They’d, in short, leave.
But Rosario, who ate love, who lived love, who loved someone new every month, Rosario loved them, even when they left.
The hard part was getting heart-broken, over and over and over again, just to get a decent meal.
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