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“I have one son. I love him. He is all what I have and is all the world for me. … No, I don´t have husband. I am from Java. I left home to work here. My husband beat me nearly every day.” She is pointing on different broadness scars in her angular, carved face: Above her eyebrows, on her cheeks and below her chin. Her appearance strong and dominant, masculine and the gracious chest of a mother´s love, adoring her beauty and kindness. Watching her palying pool giving me an idea of how she grew up, between the dirt stamped elbows of a boy´s life.
“Life now in Denpasar, close to Kuta, not far from here. … No, no family here, a neighbour is looking after my kid during the nights. He is going now to school. I am very proud of him.” Shiny eyes. “I saw you standing at the bar. I don´t like big man, big muscles, they are heavy, lying on me.” She is 28. In her black short skirt and tiger blouse. Fancy lady at a hooker´s place, australian owned, in a town of pimps and sinners. “He is a good boss. … I mostly like to drink, with customers. What would you like to drink?”
Her forhead, as she is hugging me, resting on my chin, is a fevered glow. I am begging her to leave, to go home, to her son. Paid her in advance, advance of what? – pretty sure not. “No, it´s ok. Can you buy me a drink?”
she is dreaming of a foreigner or honest man, saving her. She already rescued herself.
She left the bar at 5 a.m., with me. Without. Me dumb scrotum of a moral boy.