What I noticed immediately was her long blond hair; it had the sheen of buttered toast. She stood with one hand on the pole, one hip cocked. Her eyes were blank, lips loose. She didn’t do any pole tricks, barely looked at the crowd. She didn’t act flirty or sultry or brash; nor did she act timid, the knock-kneed Bambi shtick. She moved as if she were alone, undressing in her bedroom. Her underwear was simple, a white satin bra with matching thong, a thin gold necklace with the letter E. For the entirety of my life I’ve been jealous of girls with thin gold necklaces; they always seem to have it all, a beauty that invites and never frightens. I stood there watching her, rapt as a client. There was a touch of teenage arrogance to her gestures, the belief that death did not apply, mixed with an almost genteel grace. I could picture her crossing the floor with a book on her head. I could picture her flashing the gardener just for fun. She was soft-spoken, churlish, sleepy, raw. Like the sticker I’d put on my childhood notebook: 90% ANGEL.