mark. She lingered over the necklace, but left it in place. Something had changed. Sandra hustled her out the door, clearly anxious to get to the debriefing, and after carefully locking up, Amy climbed into her friend’s little car.
“Want to go to Zeke’s?”
“Sure.” The food was good, and the booths big and private in a diner patterned after an old fashioned Italian restaurant. And it wasn’t far. Her body clamored for sustenance, but coffee and eggs would have to do. Stop it.
Thoughts drifting back to meeting Sandra for the first time . Amy felt her lip curl and looked out the side window until she could relax it. Trust wasn’t in her vocabulary back then, and trusting someone paid to take care of her made hardly a blip on her thought process. But Sandra persisted, coming in to see her on her days off, assisting in Amy’s recovery, painting the idea of a different lifestyle, a different life. She dragged Amy home with her after being discharged, and Amy went, having nowhere else to go, secretly hopeful Sandra was for real. The thought crossed her mind that the other woman wanted her sexually. They were almost the same age and Sandra had no obvious outside sexual interests, no men or women visiting or calling.
But she soon discovered Sandra’s motives were pure, if altruistic. Sandra saw Amy’s life as a virtual mirror of her own, if taking place several years later and in a somewhat different context. Sandra had been on the streets as a young teen, running from sexual abuse at home, and ironically having to survive in the same way, before fortune smiled when she drew the attention of a street social worker. Sandra was proof that a person could make something of herself , no matter the history. She went back to school, finishing high school in less than three years, then trained as a nurse. It was no secret Sandra wanted to give back, to rescue people, and Amy was her pet project.
They couldn’t be more different physically. Mutt and Jeff, blond and brunette, statuesque and thin, street smart and college -educated. But they shared an intense emotional bond, survivors to the core. Amy knew Sandra had it together in different ways than she did, except her libido was in hibernation, unlike Amy’s. Both had been used for their bodies, but while Sandra denied her sexuality, Amy struggled to leash her own. Some people might think that selling one’s body on the street didn’t compare to being the pussy on the arm of a high roller or an aspiring gambler, but there was scant difference. The men were essentially the same, the sexual acts the same, and the cruelty didn’t vary.
The car jolted to a stop , and Amy jerked her thoughts from the past to the present. While unpleasant to recall, the memories no longer traumatized her, and were far easier to pack away. She only wished she could get a better handle on making appallingly poor choices, although she took heart that last night was the first slip since Vegas. Months ago.
Sandra, who always seemed to know when to keep her own counsel, to allow Amy to think her thoughts, led the way into Zeke’s. The cool air of the place, perfumed with the smells of frying bacon, baked goods and brewing coffee poured out as the door opened. Amy soaked it in, her stomach growling in response. They were seated by the window, part way down the row of red vinyl-covered booths and chrome tables. Both ignored the interested stares of the primarily male patrons.
“Coffee?” Amy and Sandra each shoved a cup in the direction of the cheerful waitress.
Sandra raised a brow. “Two specials?” At Amy’s nod the waitress made a note and hustled away.
Amy arranged all the items on the table, setting the utensils at perfect right angles to one another, squaring off the napkin holder, and placing the salt and pepper precisely in the middle of the table. The ketchup bottle was her final project.
“Are you finished thinking?”
“How’d you know to push me,
“Want to go to Zeke’s?”
“Sure.” The food was good, and the booths big and private in a diner patterned after an old fashioned Italian restaurant. And it wasn’t far. Her body clamored for sustenance, but coffee and eggs would have to do. Stop it.
Thoughts drifting back to meeting Sandra for the first time . Amy felt her lip curl and looked out the side window until she could relax it. Trust wasn’t in her vocabulary back then, and trusting someone paid to take care of her made hardly a blip on her thought process. But Sandra persisted, coming in to see her on her days off, assisting in Amy’s recovery, painting the idea of a different lifestyle, a different life. She dragged Amy home with her after being discharged, and Amy went, having nowhere else to go, secretly hopeful Sandra was for real. The thought crossed her mind that the other woman wanted her sexually. They were almost the same age and Sandra had no obvious outside sexual interests, no men or women visiting or calling.
But she soon discovered Sandra’s motives were pure, if altruistic. Sandra saw Amy’s life as a virtual mirror of her own, if taking place several years later and in a somewhat different context. Sandra had been on the streets as a young teen, running from sexual abuse at home, and ironically having to survive in the same way, before fortune smiled when she drew the attention of a street social worker. Sandra was proof that a person could make something of herself , no matter the history. She went back to school, finishing high school in less than three years, then trained as a nurse. It was no secret Sandra wanted to give back, to rescue people, and Amy was her pet project.
They couldn’t be more different physically. Mutt and Jeff, blond and brunette, statuesque and thin, street smart and college -educated. But they shared an intense emotional bond, survivors to the core. Amy knew Sandra had it together in different ways than she did, except her libido was in hibernation, unlike Amy’s. Both had been used for their bodies, but while Sandra denied her sexuality, Amy struggled to leash her own. Some people might think that selling one’s body on the street didn’t compare to being the pussy on the arm of a high roller or an aspiring gambler, but there was scant difference. The men were essentially the same, the sexual acts the same, and the cruelty didn’t vary.
The car jolted to a stop , and Amy jerked her thoughts from the past to the present. While unpleasant to recall, the memories no longer traumatized her, and were far easier to pack away. She only wished she could get a better handle on making appallingly poor choices, although she took heart that last night was the first slip since Vegas. Months ago.
Sandra, who always seemed to know when to keep her own counsel, to allow Amy to think her thoughts, led the way into Zeke’s. The cool air of the place, perfumed with the smells of frying bacon, baked goods and brewing coffee poured out as the door opened. Amy soaked it in, her stomach growling in response. They were seated by the window, part way down the row of red vinyl-covered booths and chrome tables. Both ignored the interested stares of the primarily male patrons.
“Coffee?” Amy and Sandra each shoved a cup in the direction of the cheerful waitress.
Sandra raised a brow. “Two specials?” At Amy’s nod the waitress made a note and hustled away.
Amy arranged all the items on the table, setting the utensils at perfect right angles to one another, squaring off the napkin holder, and placing the salt and pepper precisely in the middle of the table. The ketchup bottle was her final project.
“Are you finished thinking?”
“How’d you know to push me,
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