When she asks me for my name,
I don't think to ask for hers.
Right now what matters
is how she moves her ass
across the stage,
or how she might move it
across my lap.
Then she asks me
what I do for a living,
"I sell suits," I say,
and her face lights up
with a half-interested smile.
I ask her if she wants to keep dancing;
she shakes her head.
"You could be a model."
And I see the bitch of it all--
the red in her face,
the lack of confidence
behind her eyes,
mine reflected in hers.
She tells me her name is Cindy.
"Not Venus or Passion?"
"No, just Cindy."
I shake her hand
and let the dance begin.
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