Ron gives me a table dance.
At first I thought it was a tall beautiful blonde-haired Ukrainian woman but something about the hard-scrabbled determination of its desperate thighs and the rough way she touched my face betrayed him completely.
Yes, it's Ron Silliman.
"Would you like to shoot some pool?" she asks while running her hands over and over her black brassiere.
"I love your style and equipment," she tells me a little later but all I can think is man, o, man, Ron's tongue is like an eel. Like a god-damned fucking eel!
"Quit stripping... for me," I ask/tell him as we lie together in each other's arms watching Jerry Springer and lapping down some excellent Cream Soda.
"I'd miss it too much," Ron answers, cold and soulless. "And I don't think I'd like to be your woman because you'd probably take advantage of me in extremely bad ways."
Ron is completely Ron now. No illusions now.
The stubble on his cheek. The dark intelligence and devious passion of his doe-like eyes.
(Outside I hear a skunk raising its tail. The filthy hole.)
I pay him and leave.