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She chose the name Parker. She liked Dorothy’s pithiness. That, and when not working, Parker wore glasses.

And tonight, she wore but an outsized, dark cardigan, and mid-brow high heels.

This was the third time this year Parker worked the poker game. The same five gentlemen. Each time, a different hotel, but a similar up-market suite.

And her duties. Fetch a few drinks with poise and an occasional pout. There was suitable banter and minimal leer.

The poker ended at midnight. And with the last hand, Parker became part of the ante.

The rule: the big winner of the evening could have Parker for the night, or allocate that opportunity to one of the other four.

Parker was curious.

Two times previously the game had ended with the winner, or his surrogate, deferring.

Each settled for a visual once over, a blush, and a handshake. Both tipped liberally.

But tonight’s winner, Parker noted, had won with queens, which he referred to, in a whisper, as three harlots.


I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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