She wore velvet like it was ermine, like she was the Queen of England. Except queens don’t have roses tattooed on their upper thighs. Not ones that show, anyways. Her pale skin glowed under the hazy spotlights, but her lips are dark like the kiss of death--
--as she blows smoke down my chest. She cuts it off with her teeth, the lazy tendrils curling around us. Her eyes are like oil slicks. I want to tell her how beautiful she is but I can’t find the words. She doesn’t need words, she reaches down and wraps her hand around--
--the pole, knuckles turning white. Her legs lift slowly over her head. Her back arches, and her chin tilts. She slides down, down until she is close enough to lick the ground. Her legs lower, then her back, then she rolls--
--a cigarette between her fingers. The night air is biting cold. She has her velvet wrapped around her shoulders, but it’s too thin and cheap to actually keep her warm. She likes the quiet of the night. Her only company is the stray cat drawn to the noise and warmth spilling from inside the club. She steps on the cigarette and walks--
--down the steps. There are dollars clutched in her hand. Some of them are mine, and I imagine that she takes them backstage and run them over her body. I hope that she derives some pleasure from the pleasure she gives me. But she just shoves them in a bag, touches up her makeup, and adjusts her bra before returning to the noise and lights that--
--flicker on, illuminating a dim hallway. She kicks off her slippers by the front door, and then firmly locks it behind her. She makes a small bowl of oatmeal and eats it while it's too hot. The sun begins to rise outside of her bathroom window while she removes her makeup and brushes out her hair. She wanders into the bedroom and sets an alarm before burrowing under the covers. She will wake just in time to see the sunset.
