Part 2
You see her enter the bar, order a beer, and turn to look at the room. Her make-up is heavy: black charcoal around her eyes, red lips, pink cheeks. Her hair is ratted in the back. Her black skirt is short; visible at the hem is a run in her stockings that you guess starts at the crotch. Scuff marks dull the tips of her shoes. You think she looks sad, lonely, eager to please someone. Your beer is warm. Your friends are dull. You excuse yourself. You walk directly to her and stop and stare at her face. You guess she is in her mid-30s: typical client. Her head comes to your chest. She is slender, she looks delicate. She diverts her eyes and shrinks left to allow you access to the bar. You want to slam her head down onto the counter, squeeze her ratted hair in your fist, speak into her ear so only she hears you tell her what you plan to do to her in your basement. You order a drink. You feel her looking at you. You ignore her because you know that later you will have as much of her as you want.