Her name was Lola, but she wasn’t a show girl. Showy, sure, and sometimes she thought that it might be an easier way to pay the bills, but it hadn’t come to that, not yet. What bills does a seventeen year old have anyway?

She was beautiful, exotic, her own self. Two syllables, short and simple, but visions of tawdry va-va-voom or perhaps a sense of coquettishness to entice Nabokov-struck older males of the world. She was all these things, in these two Lola syllables, so imagine the possibilities of personality that her proudly European full name would have you believe. Maria Dolores Emeline Morel Alvarez. Lola is flamboyancy, shivery delight, brown limbs on a beautiful day. She is the life of the party, or she acts like she is, anyway.

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Basically, I deal in words.

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