Weedy looking, not far from girlhood, the lanky hooker walks home across a weedchoked lot toward the projects.
Still made up from the night before, her mouth's a red bow, her eyelids purple and glittery in the dawnlight.
She's gone off duty (at least for now) & has pulled a pair of cutoff jeans over her black slitskirt & stockings.
A lowcut sweater hangs from her long Parmigianino neck, revealing plenty of chest but no cleavage.
I slow the car to observe her-- she's used to looks, it's part of the trade, and out of habit offers invitation.
I am the first to look away, thinking that she has misunderstood me-- or that maybe I have misunderstood myself . . . .
copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC All rights reserved