The throb of the bass chased a path from her feet, to her head, vibrating up through the heels of her red platform shoes, off-time to her heartbeat it lifted her away from the room, off the stage and into another place. The dark corners of the hall and sticky floors, juxtapose with the bright women who wait in the wings with supportive smiles, dressed in scant clothes. A wardrobe of little dresses with spaghetti straps and velcro buckles.

At the rail, confident men in stripped suits with legs wide apart watch, hiding their shame; behind them was the drunken real estate of stag parties who tested their grooms faithfulness not realising he'd never get laid here. Cheap watchers nurse private troubles with their coke and rum for hours, and centre stage was the sharks with the big cash who simply used this space to metaphorically wave their dicks. She knows the hierarchy here and who will pay her the most money.

The stage is wide but her perfume lingers in the small spaces. The glitter on her cleavage sparkles as she flits like butterfly, creating a cocoon of intimacy. A private dance under the watchful eye of a bouncer and the temptation of forbidden touch. She spins, thinking of what she can cook for dinner in the tiny kitchen. She won't think of him.

The wail of the music alerts her to the main part of her show. She liberates the top of her dress, moving her hips and then, as the beat reaches the climax of the song, the material drops to the floor. She rolls over the bills allowing a man to tuck a fifty into the elastic at her waist and gives him the honour of unclasping her bra. Momentarily she thinks of another man's fingers and swings to her feet before it undoes her. She wrapping a knee around the shiny metal pole and pretends its him. She picks up more bills as her body turns upside down and she drops to the floor. Collecting her dress, as the song comes to a close, the dancer exits the stage to a heady applause.

In the quiet of the dressing room, the music on the stage muffled, she collapses into a worn velvet chair. In the mirror, she sees her flushed face and messed up hair. Her heart rate starts too steady.

"Good set, girl." A cute Asian girl grins at her as she clomps past in a purple thong, her chest decorated with glitter and pink nipple tassels.

"Thank you Sweetie. Good luck, it's a great crowd tonight." Marilyn smiles as she cleans up the sparkly eyeliner and ties up her errant hair into a bun. Pulling the bills from her underwear, she tucks them into a wallet, adding the rest when a wiry young man drops a wad of notes onto her station. Quietly she sorts out the tips for the bouncers and the bar staff and puts them into the metal tins in the cupboard behind her, next to the tubs of fake tan and sequin glue.

From her bag, she pulls out plain yoga pants and tugs them on. Next, she briefly hugs a soft, well worn sweatshirt and slips it over her body. She smooths down the top and runs her hands over the letters with a wistful look. 'I Love New York", she knows the words and how it looks on her. The garment drowns her, yet she wears it every night.

It's been four weeks since she last heard James Dempsey's voice.