Editors’ Choice
desperation. By Emberlynn Pendergraft
The old men at work like my voice. It’s sweeter and lighter and younger than the other girls’. They like my hair, when I wear it in pigtails and pastel pink ribbons, and say that I remind them of their now-grown daughters. They like to tip well when their much younger wives scowl at the length of my shorts. damn, you’re so desperate I am selling myself for eleven an hour. Complacent, I giggle at the jokes that come at my expense, draped over the register to take their platinum cards. I pretend not to notice they lead the conversation with their dicks. I drop the act when they take their receipt, and I scowl at the length of my shorts.
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