Dining room
Her heels were the snap of bubblegum on the floors, each one graced by the rustle of flower stem green skirts and stockings the dark pink of orchids. Maybe in another life she might have been a high born lady, stripped in her dressing room to slip and corset, but her hips held too much swagger, pendulum swinging with every step and her gaze was too bold. Not challenging, you couldn't sell wares like hers if you challenged prospective buyers.
Maybe if she was selling what was between her thighs instead of what was on them, she might have tempted those big men with their fat fingers and dumb pricks into some dark dusty corner and let them tear at her lacy panties and grunt in her ear as they did what little they could do. But she was after something else of theirs, something likewise fat, only with crisp green bills instead of clogged arteries and flowing blood.
Those were the one she was after. Young men full of too much liquor and themselves, out to buy a present for their lady friend. Older men buying an apology to their wives with something that sparkled and gleamed like new love. Her gaze assessed, too young, too poor, too goddamn needy, as she worked through the room hips making suggestions few soul ever find out he truth of and finally sat, a few seats in from the main aisle.