The scent of Mimosa oil permeated the balmy early evening air.
Rosetta was lying on her bed. She could hear the Latin rhythms coming from the street, far below her shuttered window.
Her thoughts clung desperately to the beat, as she tried to block out everything else.
Now she could smell his body odour.
Beads of sweat from his forehead dripped onto her forehead, melding with her sweat.
He was at least thirty years older than her. His body moved to a very different beat - coarse, brutish thrusts.
He was just another customer. Rosetta. Teenage prostitute. Slave to the rhythm.