Hand in hand with Sugar Daddy, pupils doubled, nail polish chipped. He offers to finance a new bra — only if he can pick it. Back in the room, the unmodel turns model, in her choicelessness, she wore it like a smile.
Suddenly, the bed seems sterile, the lights like a gynecologist’s office, the artless framed picture is leering. His glasses fog and she dematerializes. The moon hands, sliced, singing through slanted windows. How she wished she could be such a glint.
“Oh, Baby” is whispered, but echoes. His groans fill her lungs like paint. Socks, watch, wedding ring, strewn around like confetti. He’s here to feel like a man; she withers, unlike the fake Bonzai. She has blood and teeth and a memory like a wishing well. “Help” she thinks but wouldn’t say. The tea kettle has seen this a million times, it nods and laughs, “You’ve gone too far. This is a one way.”
So she accepts her duty and parts like an ocean, unravels in the too-clean sheets, tucked so tight she can’t feel her ankle. At least she can’t feel something.