There she was an apparition of myself in stuck traffic on a downtown street. At 19 I strutted around clueless wearing a red devil’s tail with a cigarette lighter on the end.
Clicking along in red 4" heels and skintight matching red tights and leotard, I cleverly balanced a cocktail tray with four fingers.
Under the red light of the darkened Devil’s Den, married men like desert snakes in suits and ties eye me bloodshot swallowing their gin and tonics after work.
They were looking for young flesh. I needed tips to pay the rent.