She paints her fingers with a close precision. He starts to notice empty bottles of gin, and take a moment to assess the sin she's paid for. A lonely speaker in a conversation, her words are swimming through his ears again: there's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you paid for. He senses something, call it desperation, another dollar, another day and if she has the proper words to say she'd tell but she'd have nothing left to sell him. Say what you mean, tell me I'm right and let the sun rain down on me. Give me a sign, I wanna believe. Mona Lisa, you're guaranteed to run this town. Mona Lisa, I'd pay to see you frown. There's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you paid for.