• Meeting by Sharae Allen

    I walk into the Lenox Lounge. My outfit shows of enough my cleavage that every man who passes can’t help sneak a peek at me. I fiddle with my oval pendant. I scan for him near the red plush sofas where young lovers toast temporary bliss. The house band, Big Red and the 110th Street Players, play a pale imitation of jazz. Everyone smokes and those who do not, are harassed by the the cigarette girl until they toss her a dime.

    Timmons is by the bar a smoke cupped in hand, the cherry glows, a long smoke breath unfurls upwards. He’s dressed impeccably–as usual. He’s freshly shaved, sober, ready for business or I hope a little fun. He finds me in the crowd. I swan over. He offers me his smoke. I take a long drag and then return it. I brush up against his skin sending a jolt of half-remembered pleasure through myself. He presses me towards a private booth.

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