Forget

Not feeling particularly creative, she wipes the counter with a
dusty tea towel and spreads her legs. This is the endless punch that
resonates through her mind. He is no one. She, lowering herself in this
manner, still means something, doesn't she? She will never see him
again but he will remember her face. Automatic now, the greeting and
the bargaining and the monotonous grind that means she has made another
tidy sum. It isn't anything special. Just enough to keep her going. But
in her mind she is already dead. A corpse swinging from a garter, is
that where she wants to be? She denies it in her head, but in her heart
is she really sure? Play acting with seedy men in seedy bars trying to
be something she isn't. She feels sick for a moment as he presses
against her, and suddenly wishes she were somebody else. She used to
have so many plans, but now those dreams are embedded in the cracks
that she watches in the ceiling and the deed is done. Grubby money in
her hand, sore and inexplicably sad, she spits into the sink.