Late in the afternoon I sit at the counter of the small diner sipping vanilla coke watching the day turn into night or dollar green. I am hot and tired and mostly luckless, angry too, my new love dying so soon. I dream myself into a hot soak in a fancy clawed foot bath tub sinking my dusty body beneath lilac scented bubbles. I imagine lying back, my eyes closed, as hot water flicks at rosy nipples. I am what one might call self-employed these days.
Settling for a motel shower I scrub my body that smells of dusty magnolias with lilac scented oil until it glimmers like alabaster. Gingerly stepping into a black sheath, slipping on silver seamed stockings and stiletto heels, I make my way onto Bourbon Street. At the corner the sounds of a sax carries through the open door of a dimly lit bar, it drifts up the alley over the faded roof of a sad brothel. From my booth I stare through a prism of glass at the Dog Star and blow a kiss to the man in the moon already yawning at the deep purple sky.