By Emily Clayton
She walks into the room, hips swaying, just to test the reaction. All eyes, except one set, swivel her way. Some jealous, others hungry, they take in her slinky form, the curvy hourglass of her waist. She never reveals her true name, preferring to go by “Henrietta.”
Winking at the wrinkled man in the toque and tattered parka, she heads for the corner. The sullen man is her prize.
“Hey there, stranger,” she says with a paint-cracked smile, “room for more?”
The man raises his face, bloodshot eyes widening. “My God. So this is where you’ve been hiding all these years.”
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