Abalene

Abalene was a hooker. Her real name wasn’t Abalene. She was one of them beautiful hookers like you see in Texas. She was so good looking that she didn’t even wear much make up and didn’t dress that sleazy. Abalene’s mini skirts were shorter than you’d let your kids wear. But hey, she was after all, a hooker.
She wore hosiery that was so sheer it looked as if it was spray painted on. Perhaps air brushed would give a better image. Sheer hosiery was one of her passions.
She had kicked a nasty drug habit by herself, and still had a smile that could open any door, twice.
Abalene had one problem. (It’s just an expression). It was a man of course. He was her pimp. She practiced the oldest profession in a rough part of Dallas and he was, unfortunately a necessary evil. And he was evil. He never hit her.
Hard that is. But never on the face. We’ll just call him Rocko .
One time some rich old bastard thought he’d make Abalene an offer she couldn’t refuse, and when she did refuse he flipped out and started beating her.
Rocko should have been there sooner. Rocko kicked his ass all the way back to his shiny new Mercedes, busted out all the windows and sent him on his not so merry way.
He rushed Abalene to the emergency room of a nice north side hospital after making her change into something a whole lot more conservative. They even kept her overnight. Rocko smuggled in chicken soup. She never forgot this.
She also never forgot that Rocko sometimes took all of her money.
One day Abalene got in her car, took a wrong turn and just kept going. She wound up in San Francisco. She took a job in an expensive restaurant and went to night school. She became a high school guidance counselor and teacher. Best damn one that school ever had.
Last I saw her she was wearing one of them acceptable mini-skirts, with those sheer hose. She was smiling.