Short skirt and black heels.

The tattoo of said heels along the pavement of the street.

The snap of purple chewing gum.

Small tits are adjusted in a low cut shirt and nipples are pinched to achieve the perfect look of cheap.

A reflection in the glass of a store window of just the right amount of makeup.

Soft, pursed lips beckon to all those that pass without ever saying a single word.

Shiny, meticulously painted fingernails glitter as they rest against an almost too bony hip.

A huff.

It's a slow night.

She's so good she can choose her own cars, not as hard up for chump change as the others.

She doesn't like the cars that look too old, or those that look as if a teenager had snuck it out of their parent's house.

She likes the ones that smell faintly of family and housewives.

Too many rings clang against wach other as she waves a too new car on by.

Waiting for the next trick she twists a finger in her hair, twirling dyed blonde round and round.

A minivan pulls up.

A smile crosses her face.

A middle-age balding man with a gold ring on his finger and a smile on his face that spoke experience in this particular drive and this roll down of a window.

A price exchanged mouths and she cautiously steps into the passenger seat, trying to protect her soiled skirt from anymore dirt.

An empty parking lot and exaggerated screams and moans.

She strokes more than just an ego.

Don't look so disappointed and digusted.

She's just another working girl.




The End
Working Girl