The RecognitionJenni Russell
The man across the table looks over my shoulder at a pretty young girl sitting behind us folding silverware. His stare is the stare of a thousand eyes looking over my shoulder in mirrored rooms with breasts and thongs. And when they asked, What is her name? Or, How much for a private dance with two girls? They were wallets. It was just my job. But here, in this dim Italian restaurant with black and white baseball photographs hung on the wall beside our booth, our knees touching under the table and an empty plate in front of me, I feel the slam of metal doors hit the concrete slab in my chest as I check over my shoulder again and look back at my husband.
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