She stood in the elevator checking her image in the compact she had pulled out of her large black bag. Pursing her lips, she ran her pinkie finger gently around the edges to make sure that no wayward color had bled into the fine creases that had only just recently begun to show themselves around the outer corners of her mouth.

She found apartment 15 D easilyÑjust as he saidÑleft off the elevator. She stood at the door a moment, straightening the seams of her fishnet hose and then adjusting the cleavage wedged into her skimpy black leather halter. Deciding she was ready, she took a deep breath and rang the bell. The door opened immediately, as though her host had been waiting expectantly on the other side.

He greeted her with a thick wet-lipped grin and led her wordlessly into the living room. "Wow" she thought gazing at the room, "I could die happy here."

"Have a seat" he offered, gesturing to the plush, brown velvet sofa. She sat and leaned back, sinking deeply into the cushions. He asked her if she wanted a drink and she told him that scotch would be fine and watched carefully as he crossed in front of the sofa to the bar built into a solid wall of book shelves. As he walked toward the shelf holding the liquor bottles and crystal glasses, he casually flicked on the CD player. "Oh Christ" she thought, "not Ella Fitzgerald again. Who ever told these middle-aged guys that Ella was a good singer to get laid to?"

She heard him opening the bottle and heard the ice clinking against the crystal - she even heard the ten-year-old scotch making its way around the square cubes to the bottom of each glass - but she was not paying attention to him. What she was paying attention to was every detail in that room. The oriental rug faded and worn as only the rugs of the very rich dared to be...the fichus tree in the corner, definitely in need of attention - wife and maid obviously away for the summer. She ran her hand back and forth across the silky nap of the velvet cushion, noting with each pass the rings that someone, with a wet glass and no coaster, had left on the pine wood table. He handed her her drink. "IÕve got the world on a string" Ella crooned. She took a sip of her scotch and watched, disconnected, as he stood before her unzipping his fly.

"I wonder what this room looks like in the winter with a fire going?" she mused as she gently drew his cock out of his pants. "If this were my house, if this were my man, IÕd sure take better care of them" she thought. And as she closed her lips around him, she shut her eyes and pretended, as she often did, that this was indeed her house and her man.

It was well past midnight when she had finished. She left the apartment quietly, taking care not to wake the client. The money was left, just as he had said it would be, on the hall table. All cash and all twenty-dollar bills as she had stipulated when making the arrangements earlier.

Barbara leaned her head back against the elevator wall and closed her eyes. God she was tired. As the elevator door slid open in the lobby, she straightened her shoulders, held her head up and strode across the floor to the front door of the building. "Cab please" she asked the doorman. Looking her up and down, his eyes resting just a beat too long on her breasts, making her only too aware at just how revealing and cheap her outfit actually was. "Too damn late to go out chasing a cab this hour," he says, " IÕd have to go all the way to Lexington to find you a cab." Sighing she reached into her purse. She was weary of the game but she knew if she wanted a taxi, she would have to play. Peeling off one of her hard earned twenty-dollar bills; she handed it to him. "Here, this should keep you company on your way." He snatched the bill out of her hand and was out the door without so much as a thanks. She didnÕt think much more of the doorman than he did of her. When he looked at her all he saw was a whore. When she looked at him she saw her father. A man who had grown mean and hateful waiting for the world to give him what he thought was his due. Blaming everyone else but himself for his own life. A beaten little man. A man who had seen his dreams crushed by lack of education, lack of imagination and most of all just plain lack.

The cab pulled up and, knowing the door would not be held for her, she marched out of the building without even a nod in the doormanÕs direction. She settled herself in the back seat of the taxi and slammed the door. As they drove up Fifth Avenue she stared out the window. Coming toward her, she saw a couple walking arm in arm. The woman was beautiful, dressed in a sheer summer silk; her companion was equally as well dressed. "SheÕs no better looking then I am" Barbara thought, as she often did when seeing those women. The lucky ones, the ones that had traded their youth and good looks for security and a man who would come home every night. She knew that most of those men cheated on their wives, often with women like her, but at least, at the end of the day, those women got to call themselves Mrs. - got the gold wedding band and someone to cling to when times got rough. Those women never had to take lonely cab rides home in the middle of the night with a strange manÕs semen hardening in their panties and the smell of his breath still on their skin. She knew there was no point in having regrets. Those women had made their choices and she had made hers. Right now all she wanted was to get home, scrub off the remains of the night and crawl into bed.

Mrs. Marcus was waiting up for her when she got home. "Oh, my goodness" Mrs. Marcus said, "You startled me. What time is it anyway?" Not waiting for an answer she looked at her watch. "ItÕs two-thirty. What are you trying to do - kill yourself? Sit down. We need to talk."

Barbara sat and asked anxiously, "Is it Amelia? Is there something wrong with Amelia?"

"Amelia - no donÕt worry, AmeliaÕs fine" Mrs. Marcus answered, " ItÕs you IÕm worried about. How much longer do you think you can keep this up?"

"Keep what up?" she asked avoiding Mrs. MarcusÕs worried eyes.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. Every night - those men. You donÕt think I know what you do for a living? IÕve lived below you for 15 years. IÕve been AmeliaÕs baby-sitter since the day she was born. I love the two of you like you were my own family. You donÕt think I know what goes on. You donÕt think AmeliaÕs going...."

"Ssh" Barbara implored, panicking. "YouÕll wake her. SheÕll hear."

"DonÕt worry about waking her. SheÕs a teenager. She sleeps like a log. They all do - just try to wake her. We need to talk about this. I am worried about you and I am worried about what will happen when Amelia finds out."

"I am too tired to discuss this," Barbara thought but she didnÕt want to insult Mrs. Marcus. She had been so good to the two of them from the day they moved in to this building. Barbara had been only twenty-four years old, with a brand new baby and sixty-two dollars to her name. She had tried, in the beginning, to keep a real job, but every where she went it was always the same. No matter how good a waitress or typist or sales person she was there was always one thing that she was better at. With her looks and her body, men, usually her bosses at first, always made it clear to her that there was a much simpler, easier and less time consuming way for her to earn money and allow her to spend more time with her baby. In the beginning she convinced herself that she was doing it for love. Each guy and each time, she was certain that he would be the one that would leave his wife or dump his long-standing girlfriend for her. At first she was given little gifts. A silk blouse, a small piece of jewelry. It really didnÕt feel like she was doing anything wrong. Anything any different than what most women did. But she would never forget the first time a man gave her money. How dirty her hand had felt where the crumpled bills had lain.

While Mrs. Marcus went into the kitchen to make them a cup of tea, Barbara walked down the hall to her daughterÕs room. Being very careful not to make any sound, she opened the door. The light from the street lamp was falling across AmeliaÕs face infusing it with a glow. Gazing around AmeliaÕs room, Barbara noticed the ragged and well-loved stuffed bears leaning languidly against the bottoms of rock star posters taped to the walls. Smashing Pumpkins meet Winnie the Pooh. She had to smile at the sight of the remnants of AmeliaÕs past colliding head on with a peek into the world of the woman she would soon become. Mrs. Marcus was right. Someday she would have to think about telling Amelia. Finding a way to explain why she had chosen this life. But not yet. It was too soon. Barbara still had time. Perhaps a year or even two before Amelia needed to be told.

Returning to the kitchen, Barbara found that Mrs. Marcus had already poured the tea and was obviously, despite the hour, settling in for a long heart to heart.

"Really, thank you for doing this" Barbara said, gesturing toward the tea cups, "but I am just so tired. Could we continue this discussion tomorrow? IÕd really love to get to sleep." "IÕm sorry, darling. I know itÕs late but I must get this off my chest. I already told Mr. Marcus not to expect me home too early. He of course, told me to mind my own business, but I told him 'Harry, if this isnÕt our business what is?' You know, AmeliaÕs been asking questions."

"What kind of questions" Barbara asked.

"You know, the usual kind. 'What does my mother really do when she goes out at night?' Things like that."

"And what do you tell her" Barbara asked, holding her breath.

"What you told me to tell her, of course" shot back Mrs. Marcus, somewhat offended that Barbara would think anything else. "That you work nights as a hostess in a night club."

"So what makes you think that she doesnÕt believe you" asked Barbara.

"Because I donÕt."

Barbara spun around. Amelia stood in the doorway in her flowered bikini panties and Grateful Dead T-shirt. A look of contempt and a tightening around the mouth making her look older and jaded. It was a familiar look which Barbara couldnÕt quite place until Amelia spoke. Instantly Barbara realized where she had seen that expression before. So many years ago. The day she realized she could no longer trust her father. The day she realized he had lied to her. It was her own face she saw now on her daughter. Her face of anger, rage, disappointment and lost innocence. Her teenage face staring back at her from a long ago bathroom mirror.