I was driving to work myself, and I saw a woman running as best she could despite her outfit. She wore a mini skirt that was little more than a bandage, and it rode up with each wobbling step. I assume the wobble was the result of her six-inch stiletto heels. All and all, she ran with the grace of a new-born giraffe bounding through a mine field.
Perhaps it’s wrong to assume that she was a stripper, but there was a “gentlemen’s club” in the vicinity and, while she was a full block away, she was moving in that direction. She also had the unmistakable air of both prey and predator.
My point is, until that moment, I’d never considered that a stripper could be late for work. It makes perfect sense that she could be, just like anyone else, but there had never been a synapse in my brain devoted to the idea.
I never thought of it the way that, as a child, I never thought of teachers using the bathroom.
Now, I’m haunted by it.