A satin dress and silk stockings lay upon the seat. It was a pretty chair with legs that ended in claws and armrests with lion heads. The cover was red satin and the wood painted golden. Underneath it lay her shoes, stiletto heels with thin, silver straps.

Now she was wearing her worn jeans and plastic slippers and stood on the balcony looking out over the busy street. Below her the engines roared and car horns sounded. She could see hordes of tourists crowding before the souvenir shops.

The warm breeze blew something into her hair. She felt it, a soft touch, almost too gentle to be noticed, yet she sensed it and plucked the little flower from between the dark locks.

It looked delicate and vulnerable, but meanwhile its pink colour seemed very bright and clear. It looked different from the sugar sweet pink of the waitresses' dresses or the pink of the paper flowers on the stage. Somehow it seemed pinker, not harder or fiercer, but simply more colourful.

She thought of the night.

He had come to the dressing room with a bouquet of roses in his hand. At first she had thought him a charming man, until... Until he had waved his banknotes and made her a 'business proposal'. She had taught him the function of stiletto heels, one that had nothing to do with wiggling, or maybe it did, for his feet weren't so steady anymore when she showed him the door.

The boss didn't like high heels on the instep of rich customers though, and he had warned her never to do it again. The only reason he allowed her to stay was because of her skill as a dancer. Yet if she would not control her temperament next time, she would have to seek another employer.

She looked at the little flower on her palm. Perhaps the man was not to blame. He was rich and used to getting what he wanted. Waving banknotes might bring him cars and drinks, a bouquet of roses at the entrance and bouncers looking the other way. Why would they not buy him women as well? It was partly her own fault, for she had sold him the illusion he had paid for. The lines between reality and fantasy had blurred.

She had taken him to Paris and New York, where the Eiffel Tower and Statue of Liberty were made out of cardboard. She had smiled at him and teased him, danced for him. What would it be without a little flirt?

The slit of her skirt revealed the rim of her stockings, sexy, seductive black lace... But her thighs were for looking at, not for touching. If he wanted that, he should go across the street.

She looked at the house where the girls lived. It lacked the glamour of the club, the music and the wine. Yet many seemed to find there what they sought in here. They continued where she stopped. She would not sit on people's laps or rub their shoulders. Let alone go further. The first time she had seen her dress she had almost refused to perform, yet compared to what these women did, her job was decent and well paid.

Sometimes she wondered if she should feel guilty. Did she perhaps bring them into the mood for it? Were men really that easily excited? It was entertainment, not foreplay.

The girl across the street waved at her and she waved back. How much would she have earned last night? Or how many had she received? At night she wore make-up to conceal the signs of decay which came from such a life. The customers would probably not even recognize her in daylight.

Paper flowers and cardboard monuments, paid love and hidden wrinkles... She looked at the flower again and realised why it was so beautiful. It was real.