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(Sex at the Circus, continued...)

You clear your throat noisily and say, above the crowd’s clamour:

“Angelica. Congratulations. You’re a true artist. I’m Victor.”

Her beautiful brown eyes catch the light from the lamp and glint. She smiles. Moist red lips.

“I know who you are,” she says. “You liked what you saw?”

Encouraged, you go on:

“You were amazing on the high wire. I felt like I was up there with you. I still do.

“Victor,” she says. Her voice is like the wind. It sweeps through you. “You’re sweet.”

She reaches into the right pocket of her coat and hands you a paper entrance ticket.

“Midnight,” she says.

You’re standing there dumbstruck, even after she walks away with her enormous bodyguards either side of her. You watch the movement of her body under her coat.

The crowd of men disperse, looking confused as to why they were there in the first place.