sex phone operator

she pulls up in
a new red sports
car, parking it
diagonally in the lot
to avoid dings
and scratches.
what's up with that,
you ask her, as she
strolls over? Nice.
I got a part time job
last year, she says,
taking a seat
outside the café.
oh yeah, doing what?
at night i'm a sex
phone operator.
of course you are,
you say, rolling
your eyes.
she is thin
and red haired,
no make up with pale
sad eyes and parted
teeth. lean
over the table,
she says. come
closer. then
she whispers with
a harsh strange voice
into my ear to prove
it. okay, okay.
stop, I tell her
as my ears burn
and I search my
pockets for a set
of rosary beads.
true, she says.
I make more money
doing that than
I do at my
accountant job.
it's all about
keeping them on
the phone once you
get their credit
card numbers. she
shrugs, picks up
the menu,
it's just a job,
she says. Men
are so easy and
predictable.
but where did you learn
to talk like that?
I don't know, guess
it was always in me,
I just needed the motivation.
what about your kids,
I ask,
don't they answer
the phone sometimes?
I have a separate
phone, she says.
a mommy phone with
a special mommy ring.
I take the call in
the bathroom and
then seal the door
with thick towels
to keep the sound
in. then i run
the water in the sink.
everything goes well
until the dog
starts scratching.
interesting, I say.
how many miles per gallon
do you get in
that car? premium gas?