Bourbon Street

House of Heart

During the late afternoons I sit at the counter of Woolworth’s sipping vanilla coke watching the day turn into night or dollar green but it seems as Gershwin said, not for me. It is dog days and I am hot and tired and mostly luckless, angry too, my new love dying on the vine. I daydream myself into a hot soak in a fancy clawed foot bath tub sinking my dusty body into lilac scented bubbles. I imagine lying back with closed eyes as the hot water flicks at my peony nipples. I am what one would call self employed these days.
Settling for a motel shower stall I scrub my body that smells of dusty magnolias with rose scented oil until it glimmers like alabaster. Dutifully stepping into a black sheath and slipping on thigh high seamed stockings and heels saved for the occasion I confidently make my way…

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