Well, Blogger apparently decided to have a nice little outage this morning, so the words are a bit late today.
Welcome to Three Word Wednesday. Each week, I will post three (or more) random words. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write something using all of those words. It can be a few lines, a story, a poem, anything. I'll also attempt to write something using the same words.
Leave a comment if you participate. Many fun and interesting people might visit your blog.
This week's words are:
"Tatiana will be taking care of you today, Mister Smith."
She said it like she knew it was a fake name, or suspected it at least. Carl tried not to cringe, instead forcing a subtle smile. So he used a fake name and always paid with cash. It was better than word getting around town that he came here once a week.
Still, he regretted not coming up with something more creative than Smith. Though it was pointless now, he ran thru other names in his mind. Anderson... Matthews... Ruth... Mantle... DiMaggio...
"Tatiana is new. This is her first day. You will let me know if there are any problems."
"Oh, sure," Carl nodded. As he waited, he began to feel the familiar twinge of guilt he always felt coming here. Why? It was money paid in exchange for services rendered. That was the very foundation of our economic system.
A slender brunette appeared out of one of the back rooms. She was visibly nervous, but flashed a practiced smile.
"Hi, I'm Tatiana."
"Hello," Carl dipped his head in acknowledgment as the three of them stood in place for a few long seconds.
"Well, don't just linger there," Sandra instructed. "Take Mister Smith here to room number four."
Tatiana led him down a corridor and opened a door on the left.
"Take off all your clothes and lie down. I will be back in a moment," she spoke in a thick Russian accent, then closed the door.
Carl was digging the accent. He quickly got undressed, folded his clothes and placed them in a neat pile on the floor, careful to hide his hairbrush amongst them.
He always brought a brush because his hair always became disheveled, and he liked to straighten himself up when it was over. Still, he didn't know if other customers brought a brush, and he thought there might still be some rule that men weren't supposed to be concerned with their hair, so he would hide it.
Carl lied face down, covering himself with a sheet, and waited. The guilt was gone. He needed this. This was America after all. Land of the free, and home of cute Russian immigrant massage girls.
"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you..."