08-12-2013, 07:28 AM
The red light district was hardly the ideal place for a good girl to find work. Good girls didn't come to places like this.
Claire explored these streets in a perfume of imagery she was both drawn to and repulsed by. She paused in front of a window of a toy shop, peering in at what was displayed. The open streets of Brooklyn posed similar wares, though far less openly, and boasted business ventures only the locals knew where to find. But here, in Moscow's urban center, as gust of wind brushed her bangs and her eyes followed its path, she was keenly aware of no longer being in the US.
She decided she was not repulsed by her surroundings, but as she moved away from the shop window, she was not particularly interested in being a customer either. She needed a job.
It was mid-afternoon, and Claire took the chance that the business she sought was going to be open at this hour. Neither was it too early for the Seers to still be sleeping, but it was not so late in the day that business would pick up. If Moscow's enchanted seekers of fortune were anything like New York's, that is.
The pay by purchase phone in her skirt pocket did nothing to provide her with an address nor so much even the name of local psychic shops. The far more reliable method was to ask around, which Claire's outgoing, fearless personality enabled her success with relative ease, even in a city unfamiliar with speaking with strangers. Evidence of one such shop was in the plastic bag wrapped around one of her wrists, tangled up with an arm of bracelets, bangles and ties. From one end stuck out the tell-tale gathering of incense sticks. Their faint aroma followed in her wake. At least it muffled the scent of old urine and dry booze. Not that such bothered her. She was a New Yorker, after all.
She passed love shops, host and hostess clubs, hourly hotels, toy shops, and live-action theaters: the scroll above the door tickering the naughty name of something to do with Shakespeare held a strangely suggestive allure. Claire had never been keen on frequenting theaters or operas of the elite. If she went to Broadway, it was not to watch Phantom of the Opera. Yet she was intrigued by the idea of a sex-show turned play. Would it be like watching live-action porn or would it be more artistic than that? Did critics review the acting? It was an interesting idea. Perhaps if she wandered the district at night she would have been of a mind to find out, but the day-time seemed to dull her interest, and she decided to keep to her plan.
Edited by Claire, Aug 12 2013, 07:33 AM.
Claire explored these streets in a perfume of imagery she was both drawn to and repulsed by. She paused in front of a window of a toy shop, peering in at what was displayed. The open streets of Brooklyn posed similar wares, though far less openly, and boasted business ventures only the locals knew where to find. But here, in Moscow's urban center, as gust of wind brushed her bangs and her eyes followed its path, she was keenly aware of no longer being in the US.
She decided she was not repulsed by her surroundings, but as she moved away from the shop window, she was not particularly interested in being a customer either. She needed a job.
It was mid-afternoon, and Claire took the chance that the business she sought was going to be open at this hour. Neither was it too early for the Seers to still be sleeping, but it was not so late in the day that business would pick up. If Moscow's enchanted seekers of fortune were anything like New York's, that is.
The pay by purchase phone in her skirt pocket did nothing to provide her with an address nor so much even the name of local psychic shops. The far more reliable method was to ask around, which Claire's outgoing, fearless personality enabled her success with relative ease, even in a city unfamiliar with speaking with strangers. Evidence of one such shop was in the plastic bag wrapped around one of her wrists, tangled up with an arm of bracelets, bangles and ties. From one end stuck out the tell-tale gathering of incense sticks. Their faint aroma followed in her wake. At least it muffled the scent of old urine and dry booze. Not that such bothered her. She was a New Yorker, after all.
She passed love shops, host and hostess clubs, hourly hotels, toy shops, and live-action theaters: the scroll above the door tickering the naughty name of something to do with Shakespeare held a strangely suggestive allure. Claire had never been keen on frequenting theaters or operas of the elite. If she went to Broadway, it was not to watch Phantom of the Opera. Yet she was intrigued by the idea of a sex-show turned play. Would it be like watching live-action porn or would it be more artistic than that? Did critics review the acting? It was an interesting idea. Perhaps if she wandered the district at night she would have been of a mind to find out, but the day-time seemed to dull her interest, and she decided to keep to her plan.
Edited by Claire, Aug 12 2013, 07:33 AM.