Feather Boa Constrictor by Matthew J. Hockey

Maggie sprayed another cloud of perfume into the air and stepped into it. It cost her a hundred pounds a bottle but still smelled cheap, brassy almost. That’s why she’d picked it. It was the sort of detail her regular bookings appreciated.

Tonight’s client was fresh out of prison and his friend, the one who arranged the session for him, asked for her specifically. He actually used the line “Show him a good time” as if she hadn’t heard that a hundred times before.

“I just dance. Nothing else,” she’d said.