A view from the driver's seat

Working Girl

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I picked up S on a Sunday night. She was late coming downstairs, more than 5 minutes. I saw her walk slowly up to my car in my rearview mirror, but only the top part of her. She was wearing a tight tight deep crimson dress and a flamboyant gold necklace that seemed made out of shards. She had her head down as she slipped into the back seat so I couldn’t get a good look at her. She whispered where she was going, a downtown location on the fringes of what’s considered safe. I assumed it was a club. Yet, she sat silently shrinking into the backseat, not saying a word. No air of celebration or clubbiness around her. Ok maybe she was just rude. That was fine. I don’t need everyone to be my best friend.

As I approached the corner that she gave me, I saw there was only one building on the block. You couldn’t miss the garish neon outlining a woman’s body. I pulled over, she mumbled thanks, and as she carefully stepped out, I turned and saw her liquid black eyeliner, Cleopatra heavy around her eyes. I saw her 6 inch black stripper heels. The lumbering Mexican bouncer opened the doors. And she went inside to reluctantly start her shift while I went back to working mine.


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