Late afternoons I sit at the counter of a small diner sipping vanilla coke watching the day turn to night or dollar green. I’m hot and tired and mostly luckless, angry too, my new love fading so soon.
I dream myself into a hot soapy bath in a fancy claw-foot tub, sinking into lilac scented bubbles, eyes closed, the hot water washes away the street life.
These days I’m what one might call self-employed.
Settling for a motel shower, I scrub my body that smells of dusty magnolia with rose scented oil until it gleams like alabaster. Stepping into a black sheath, slipping on silver seamed stockings and stiletto heels I make my way back onto Bourbon Street. At the corner the mellow sounds of a sax carries through the open door of a dimly lit bar, drifts up the alley over the faded roof of a smoky café. Losing…