“Hi, is C.J. there?” she asked.“Uhhh ... yeah. Hold on.” He laid the phone on the bar.After a minute or so of listening to Sinatra singing ‘...ew York, New York’ on the juke box, C.J. picked up. “Yeah?”“Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” Violett had always liked to make C.J. laugh.“Huh, ha. Hey, sweetie. How’d Saturday go for you? Didja collect?” C.J. always got straight to business, especially when some was coming her way.Violett knew she was not going to like the answer. “No, I let it. Two women sat together on the middle bench chatting about the latest reality program. Through the mist, she nodded politely, and selected an isolated spot high in the corner. Eyes closed, she touched the back of her head to the wall and exhaled. Her towel absorbed her sweat, muscle aches and stress. She sighed. Thirty-one next month, two years without a promotion and I'm still living alone in a studio apartment. It's all so depressing. At least I don't have a cat … yet.How many times the door. That was when all laughing stopped. I looked into her big grey eyes her looking into my green eyes. Both of us saying nothing, doing nothing. I was increasingly aware of how close she was, how her smooth thighs were ageist my own. How her breasts were touching mine only thin material between us. How her pulse was quickening. I started to pull away but scarlets hold on my waists kept me in place. She instead smiled at me. Kitty she said. Yeah Scarlett I replied my voice quite. She moved her. See them in your mind, illuminated by the smoky, flickering light of oil lamps and candles. Vague shapes in the near darkness. See this birch I made. Twigs are still wet from the rain. It’s not very neat I know but I only just went down the garden to cut the osiers. Six of them Margaret. Six lines of fire across your arse with each stroke. Imagine it Margaret. Imagine the audience of men and perhaps some women for they are often more cruel, urging me to hit harder and harder. To go on and on.
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