She stretches lazily across a bed of silken linens, slowly swinging her feet behind her as she lounges, waiting for her lover to come. The crimson bulbs overhead cast a hazy glow across the room; reflecting off scarlet sheets and pillows, and creating an illusion amongst her perfectly coiffed raven locks of a soft glow. She lays with one arm propped at the elbow; her curled hand just beneath her chin; the other dangling off the foot of the bed where a black padded leather bench stands; currently being employed as a makeshift table. Her manicured fingertips also reflect maroon as they lightly graze the sides of a glass of merlot; slowly swirling the dark liquid in passive, dreamy circles; the warmth already creeping across her cheeks from drink. I'm not like the other girls, she thinks to herself; her head feeling heavy in her hand. I'm class. I'm better than all of them put together. I don't have to stay here. I can leave any time I want to. I'm only here because I want to be. It was the same story that she told herself every day; it had been resounding in her mind for so long that she'd even begun to believe it.
As a twinge of nagging doubt starts to enter her mind, she tosses back another long gulp before abandoning the now-empty glass on the bench. She shifts to sit; the motion nearly causing her breasts to spill out from the top of her black negliee as crawls across the bed to retrieve her Marlboros. She lights the cigarette and drags deeply as she sinks back against the pillows, smoke swirling in tendrils around her as she crossed one leg over the other; still privately enjoying the feel of silken stockings rubbing against each other. The soft wail of a sultry trumpet sounding from a speaker off in some dusty corner of the room only further carried her away from reality, having long since forgotten how sleazy it had once made her feel when she first came here. After so much time had passed, she'd not only learned to embrace it, but she had become the illusion. The innocent, timid blonde girl-next-door Daisy had died long ago; she'd been re-born as Babette after she'd blackened her hair, re-invented her face with a pound of makeup and false lashes, adopted a fake high-class accent, and for all intents and purposes, had become the femme fatale from another era. Once soft and kind blue eyes had turned icy cold as a result of circumstance, which she would refer to as nothing more than "worldly experience".
She nearly jumps out of her skin as she hears a hand on the doorknob, snapping her out of her reverie. She quickly snuffs out the cigarette and returns to how she'd laid before, except with both arms folded now just below her bust; making every effort emphasize every last bit of cleavage she could possibly employ as her eyes lock on the doorway. She can hear muffled male voices negotiating outside, and although her outward appearance remains stoic, she feels the familiar fluttering in her chest of whether or not she'll find work tonight. Only clearly making out the words "you can't afford her" and hearing the hand leave the doorknob, she sighs and slumps forward, feeling deflated that it had happened again before reaching down for the remainder of the bottle of Merlot. Fuck them, she thinks to herself; trying to shift her mood defensively. I'm too good for them anyway. This time, she doesn't bother with the glass as she quickly empties the rest of the bottle to drown the ever-present feeling of rejection that had followed her throughout her life and brought her here in the first place, and desperately wanting to kill the infantile fantasy that one of these johns would be the prince to deliver her from the life she managed to get herself stuck into. Through half-lidded eyes, she focuses on the hypnotically blinking red lights just outside her window as she guzzles the last of the wine.
