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when I approached.  I got closer and noticed the heavy streaks
of gray in her hair and loose skin around her upper arms.  Somebody’s
grandmother probably, and I wondered how she felt about working where she did. 
What if it was her granddaughter coming in for an interview at an escort
service?  Maybe it didn’t matter.  Maybe she didn’t have grandchildren and what
the girls there did with their bodies was none of her concern.  Or maybe she’d
been in the same position as me—unemployed and desperate—and accepted what had
finally been offered.
    “Well,
hello, sweetheart,” she said, and I instantly fell in love with her.  Kind
words, sweet disposition.  Welcoming.  She reminded me of Lois, Dreama’s
mother, who’d passed away when I was fifteen years old.  I had so many fond
memories of my time at Lois’s house and still missed her too much, all those
years later.  How the sweetest woman in the world had given birth to the spawn
that became Dreama was anyone’s guess.
    “Hi,
Alice.  I’m Kim Baker.  I called earlier and have an interview scheduled.”
    “You
certainly do,” Alice said, checking her computer screen.  “You’ll be meeting
with Roman.”
    “Roman?”
    “He’s
the owner.  Can I get you anything?  Coffee or tea?  Anything stronger?”
    “Stronger?”
    “To
help you relax, dear.  Your hands could mix paint the way they’re shaking.”
    It
was true, and I’d been so stuck inside my own head contemplating what in the
hell I was doing there that I hadn’t even noticed.  I clasped my fingers
together and then held my purse against my waist, trying to steady my hands. 
“Sorry about that.  I’m a little…nervous.”
    Alice
gave me a knowing look, like she’d heard it hundreds of times before.  She
said, “They all are, honey.  Everyone that walks through that door for the
first time.  Now, how about that drink?” 
    “Scotch,
I think.  That’s classy, right?”
    She
winked at me.  “You learn fast.  Roman will be impressed.” 
    ***
    A
couple of minutes later, I sat in a tiny waiting room off to Alice’s right. 
With my legs crossed, I tapped a foot on the floor and tried to keep the ice
from rattling in my tumbler.  The scotch was strong with a hint of caramel flavor
on the back of my tongue.  It burned going down and it wasn’t long before I
began to feel the effects.  I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in months.  Couldn’t
afford it.  The result of a bottle of wine, alone, wasn’t worth the expense, no
matter how stressed or depressed I’d been.
    The
waiting room had the distinction of being plain but strangely decorated at the
same time.  Lime green walls, fake flowers, and famous art reprints.  A small
coffee table sat in front of me with an odd statue of a golfer in mid-swing,
which served as a centerpiece.  The couch I sat on was faux leather, but deep
and cushy, so I didn’t mind its fakeness too much.  Being comfortable when
you’re about to pee yourself is a much-needed benefit.
    Across
from me was a matching love seat and next to that, a stack of magazines on an
end table, their covers adorned with more golfers in ridiculous clothes and
awkward poses.  It had to be where they deposited all the male clientele, if
any of them were bold enough to visit the office instead of calling in an
order.
    Did
they sit them down with a three-ring binder and have them flip through a stack
of headshots like they were choosing from a menu?  And what would that be
like?  Did it have tabbed sections for things like Blondes, Brunettes, or
Ethnic?  And maybe Young, Mature, or Something in Between?  Fake Boobs?  Real
Boobs?
    What
category would I fall under?
    Shaky,
probably.  The caption under my headshot would read something like, “Pick this
one—she vibrates!”
    I
checked the door, saw that Alice had her attention elsewhere, and then discretely
sniffed my armpits. 
    He
could smell me if we do it in here , I thought.  God, this is a