A meeting at the client’s.
Everytime I have a meeting with you, I’d have to wake up earlier than usual and spend more time in the bathroom preparing myself.
I let my hair hang down, wear my low cut tops extra tight, heels a little sharper, skirts a little higher, jeans a little lower, jacket a little thinner… Just so you can get distracted when I play with my hair, or lean a little closer to the table, or cross my legs.
I sit there, watching your ugly lips move as you rattle on about your years of experience and belittle my professionalism. I smile at you, letting you think that I am blushing with embarrassment, when I’m actually thinking of something else. I watch as you scribble untidily across the work that I had painstakingly done last night. I look you in the eye, but all I think about is smashing your glasses into your face so that it becomes a permanent fixture.
I blink in disgust as I watch you try to avoid looking at my breasts. Those beady, shifty eyes never fail to remind me of a toad. You rush to open the door for me, brushing past me. I look down at you, at that lecherous face. I catch you looking at the expanse of flesh I expose between my top and my jeans when you bring me around the property. I hear you telling me how pretty and young and capable I am when minutes ago, you were so cocksure and demeaning.
All I want is your money. Look all you want. All I want is to make your money.