Holly is standing in her doorway on display. She’s all skin and bones and bleached out panties and she’s lucky because her hair hangs down long enough to cover her nipples. She’s lucky because Mr. Actor and Mr. Dirty Divorce are both at her door, jaws to the floor, waiting to see whom she’ll invite in. She’s lucky because two is always better than none, and she thinks, just maybe, she can turn this mix-up into a napping ménage-trois and double her profits.
Holly is standing in her doorway on display. And Mr. Actor is all like, How could this happen, you know this is my time slot. And he’s talking with his hands; those big balmy palms of his; those soft un-calloused fingers that have never seen a day of hard labour. It’s all Holly can do not to interlock her fingers between the mountainous ridges of his knuckles and pull him out of the wood-framed doorway, into her scungy studio apartment. And Mr. Actor—in his tight chino pants and waffle shirt tucked in; in his desert boots and slanty po-boy cap; in his silver chains wrapped round his wrist like shackles—he’s almost in tears, because he’s got an audition this evening and he just really needs his nap.
Holly is standing in her doorway on display. And even though she can’t take her eyes from Mr. Actor’s larger-than-life hands, she can hear Mr. Dirty Divorce pleading his own case. And even though her gaze is fixated on the flexed metacarpals in Mr. Actor’s fisted grip, she can feel Mr. Dirty Divorce’s eyes on her rosy nipples puckering out between strands of sandy blonde hair. Holly mainly just thinks Mr. Dirty Divorce is a pervert because he’s always smashing his hard-on into her back when he thinks she’s sleeping, but his tips are worth the dick-shaped bruises he leaves behind.
Holly is standing in her doorway on display. Still. And she’s having a hard time making up her mind; and this whole time she hasn’t said one word to Mr. Actor or Mr. Dirty Divorce; and in a way she sort of feels bad for them because look how badly they need a nap. They’re both staring at her with eyes as big as pies, waiting for her to say something; to tell them what to do; to tell them who should stay and who should go. But Holly, she just gets this sly-fox grin on her face because she’s counting Mr. Dirty Divorce’s dollars while imagining Mr. Actor’s paraffin-smooth hands grazing her thigh. And they’re still staring at her with their desperate faces and she’s got something to tell them and she’s ready to say it, but first she’s going to get a shirt because it’s really cold in this doorway and her nipples feel as jagged as the edges of a bottle cap.
