stripper on the roof

I work in an office. An old warehouse, actually. Situated between three of the best gentlemens clubs in the city. The one directly across the street, the one with the gold Pegasus statue stashed on the roof, is appropriately enough called, Choice. Reassuring customers and strippers alike, that, yes, you are each making a choice and by the soft glow of the neon lights, it is a good decision.

Today, as my gaze wanders out the window for the four-hundreth time, I notice a young woman, wrapped in a sweater, on a day not less than eighty degrees, sitting on top of that roof. That "no access" roof with the gold pegasus statue. Sitting behind the gold winged-horse, deep brown hair blowing in the wind, she watches the customers down below laugh and egg each other in. She turns back to the horizon, pushing her head up further and inhaling all that the open sky has to offer.

I turn to my computer screen and when my gaze strays back she is gone. Back down the winding stairs to the lit stage below. Back to two dollar cherry cokes and nonsensical intimacy. To sweaty hands at the small of her back. To the smells of cheap cologne and tater tots, new dollar bills and old coins. She will lose herself in her work, something that I can not do. Instead I will sit here and wait, watching for her to re-emerge, waiting for her next breathe of air.