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57 the prostitutes of amsterdam My wife went off with a friend to do some shopping, so instead of heading for the Van Gogh Museum, which was my original plan, I decided to go see the famous prostitutes of Amsterdam. I found the area with no difficulty, and walked down the street with other men my age, trying to seem shocked, like, how did I end up here? But I have to say, the first prostitute I saw was a disappointment. On the other side of the full-length window she was sitting in what looked like her kitchen. She was maybe sixty-five, wearing a red bustier and black fishnet stockings, smoking a cigarette and working on a crossword puzzle. Oddly, she reminded me of my mother, not that my mother, as far as I know, ever dressed like that. But something about the slump of her shoulders as she squinted down at the paper made me think that at any moment she would look up in that weary, life-defeated way my mother had (my mother had been defeated by life), release a slow, dispirited lungful of smoke, and ask me how I wanted my eggs, scrambled or sunny side up, as if it would make any difference. ...


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MARC Record
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