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She knocked at my door. It was a quarter to nine O'clock Thursday evening.
I spoke to her earlier in the day, in the late afternoon. She came just on time.
I opened the door, after bolt and bolt. There she was, standing perfectly still.
Dressed in black and pink. Soft pink. Just as requested. She smoked a long cigarette. 
Quite ill. I asked her to come on in and she did, with a wag and a tight stroll.
I asked her what kind of music she wanted to listen too. She said she didn't mind.
I suggested some jazz. Not the contemporary kind, but the older kind. 
Her golden hair waved as she tossed it back to the other shoulder in a graceful movement. 
She picked up today's Times from my bare floor and asked for a glass of water,
before I could even offer. I told her to feel at home and have a seat.
I went to the kitchen, scratching, and poured her a glass of water in one of my finest clear glasses.
Came back out, still scratching, and found her on my used couch in a gaze, still.
I reached out and gave her the water and told her how much I appreciated her business.
She thanked me back, and took a sip of her cold water.

 2004 David Greg Harth