only thing Trishon thought she had going for her was the way men liked to be in her company and tell her she was pretty and buy her nice things. So, she learned from a young age how to get what she wanted with what she had.
Most times she hated the feel of the men’s hands and the sounds of their grunting as they pumped away between her cold thighs, but sometimes—every once in a while—a man’s hands would warm her, soothe her, and make her feel wanted for the first time in a long time.
It didn’t matter if they didn’t have the decency to buy a nice hotel room to fill her with their desire. They would park deep in the woods in their cars and whisper heated words of her beauty in the back seat. Only to ignore her in the light of day.
But that was behind her now.
“How are you today, Mrs. King?”
Trishon looked up surprised by the saleswoman’s voice behind her. She smiled, pushing away her memories. “I’m fine, just fine,” she said.
Yes, she was Mrs. Hank King, and the days of hunger, shame, poverty, and pity were long behind her.
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