I find myself between her thighs again. Disappointed, fragile and drunk, I shouldn’t be here. I can’t leave before it’s over, but my head is not in the game.
I think about Gwyneth Paltrow, Winona Ryder and Maggie Gylenhaal. Pretty faces with pretty bodies, but I don’t know them and they don’t me. It’s not enough to distract from Lucy. She’s gone now.
“Ouch,” she exclaims.
I’m not paying attention. I slip and re-position my hands.
“Oh, sorry about that. What about here?”
I don’t even remember her name. Meaningless. I’m not supposed to be here. It’s my day off, but Lucy asked me to cover a month ago. I won’t let her down.
“Ooooh, that’s much better.”
But it’s been 45 minutes, my hands weak, I walk out and don’t even say goodbye. She wasn’t my client anyways.
