This isn't the kind of day to be indoors. The air's humid with the scent of summer, memories of childhood gardens, the first day of holidays spent lounging on rich tea-scented grass, exerting no effort beyond thought or breath. Memories too of Paris in late Spring, or that day on the heath by the lake. The sky's dizzy with memories of times when the future stretched far ahead in half-whispered promises of contentment and new adventures. This is no day for prostitution. This is the very sort of day I shouldn't have to pretend to be someone I can't stand.