Take two xanax, drink a bottle of wine, and call me in the morning.
Be sure that you don’t forget that you are a slave to me; that I own you. Sally says these things with a coy smile.
She only eats her steak rare, and she always drinks her whiskey straight. And no ice. She doesn’t like it watered down. It takes out the kick. She will tell you, with the knife picking at the specks of pepper flakes that are wedged between her crooked teeth, that she will take care of you, so long as you take care of her.
She’s like a rouge – French. The perfume, and the never quite right ruby-red lipstick that is always smudged on the bottom from the eight-ball whiskey glass, make it known she can’t be trusted. Her dark, curly black hair is never properly sitting on top of her head and always seems to have jeweled barrettes placed nonchalantly in various, odd places. The knee-high knickers that she covers with her dark green dress hides that Sally doesn’t have it, but that she’ll take it from you. You are her meal ticket. You are her rouge.
Take two xanax, drink a bottle of wine, sign this piece of paper and call me in the morning. Sally doesn’t love you; she loves what you can do for her.