From Issue 10: Hot Peppers

Hot Peppers Domenic Scopa a strip club in Prague After several beers my vision scans the bar mirror−attentive, beaming lighthouse. High heels click. Strobes ignite her platinum wig. On my thigh, her manicured fingernails trace figure eights−I bet you’d like to have your way with me, American?−My posture stiffens tight as her corset. Fresh out of a relationship, I switch the subject, brag I toured a Nazi work camp earlier that day for college−University? she asks. Then you must have learned about the Jewish son and father forced to kill each other in the captain’s pool, college boy?−Her English broken…

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