What you pay for

There’s never a call for lingering afterward. A quick visit to the restroom and then the dress is pulled back on in a manner far less sexy than it was removed. The heels are re-strapped to tiny feet; it’s unclear if they make the walk out the door easier or more difficult.

They always think they’ve paid for talk in addition to my “services,” and my stock response tells them that there are other girls they can pay for that. In these moments I want the words to stop, though not nearly as much as I want to be crawling under the covers I share with the one I love.

“Who are you runnin’ off to now? Another job? Or is it home, to the one who gets it free?”

The stock answer didn’t come. None of them had ever mentioned my man, only the prospect of filling that place. I was cast into silence for a moment.

“Something like that.”

The door closed behind me; I put a little slam into it.

My man’s eyes, always eager, even through sleepy slits. His covers and body were warm, even on my frigid skin; my frosted heart.

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