Her legs were shadowed by those of the stool

which propped her askew the bar,

knees pointing out each man that entered the gloom.

Slim, delicate, instinctive fingers wrapped the stem of an invitingly empty glass,

face lowered, eyes raised,

a skirt, with business-like immodesty held her thighs,

jacket separating her, part androgynous, part very much the woman of the room

Her confidence upon that perch belied her years,

only the softness of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes unmistakable,

glowing against the mirrored neons.

No one man had had the balls to approach her,

such was her presence, formidable, knowing, aware.

She waited for one, only one, any one,

if they did but see it,

but see it he must, she needed a man that knew, that understood what he saw,

that knew what she wanted. And he arrived.

Short, stocky, perhaps double her years,

suited and careless, leaving tomorrow.

He bought the drink

She gave the smile

She left him without uncertainty.

He left with her.