Yesterday night, on my way home from work, I passed by this old building full of Pakistanis and Indians. My husband warned me not to pass by that building because there are prostitutes living there.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Well, I see ladies dressed provocatively surrounded by men. Trust me, just don’t pass there.”
I ignored him, and anyway, I’m just passing by.
So last night, as I was busy fiddling my phone, chatting with my best friend. A middle-aged man, I don’t know if he’s Indian, Bengali or Sri Lankan, who was standing in that old building, approached me.
“Excuse me, you know this lady inside? Her name is Anoop. She’s from Sri Lanka.”
“No. I don’t live there,” I said, and continued walking.
“Wait. You Filipini?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You know this lady Anoop?”
“No,” I said. “If you want, just go inside and ask.”
“You Filipini? You like? I will pay 200.”
I quickly walked away, pointed my finger at him and told him, “Hey! What was that about?!”
Gosh. That was uncalled for. Do I look like a prostitute in my scrubs?
Moral lesson: Listen to your husband.