She made her living delivering phone sex.
Her looks were immaterial.
Her tongue, her throat, her voice –
those were the curves,
the siren eyes,
the dress tightened round the thigh
like a hangman’s rope.
Her kid tucked in, prayers said,
it was time to tell strangers stories
with more fantasy than fairy tales,
more insight into their weaknesses than God.
She wore her hair down,
a robe around her body,
and puffy pink slippers covering her feet.
Like a phony spiritualist,
she read straight from her client’s own script,
embellished with pants, sighs,
and a cry, loud enough for the intended ear,
but cupped with a hand,
so it wouldn’t wake the child.
The pay was okay.
The hours worked to her advantage.
And nobody knew what she did for a living.
Sure, she pitied the guys on the other end of the line.
And she once pitied herself
but that just didn’t pay enough.