The Queen of Spades.

Friday night and Queen Street is pattered with rain. Traffic weaves around the red streetcars, the wayward pedestrains, impatient as the taxis deliver their well-dressed cargo to the corner of the Gladstone Hotel. The evening is still early and already the bar appears full when viewed through the elegant windows, the lounge beside simmering with the young, the successful, the countercultural, the trendy, the wannabes.

Her sleek heels clik on the wet pavement as she crosses the street toward the hotel. Her hair is taut across her scalp, the long and swaying strands of her rich brown hair complementing the movement of her hips as she strolls. The sheer dark miniskirt is as tight as a drum's skin, holding her thighs in an embrace, accentuating her small and so perky derriere as its cheeks raise and lower with each sensual and graceful step she takes. She's petite, likely in college, and as the faintest smile is spread across her amber lips as she makes her way to the lounge.

Friday night and she's on a prowl. Is the man she's seeking awaiting her? Or has she come out on her own on this windswept, rainsoaked evening, seeking to locate and lure the male object of her desires? What sifted through her mind as she selected that small skirt, those sleek dark shoes, and painted her face in her mirror?

One thing is certain: her intention tonight is likely very limited, very select. Will the night come to the result she seeks?

Upon the rear of her bare left calf, well above the sexy heels that clik and clak on the rainy pavement and stark against her so very white skin is a particular tattoo that, to the appropriate man's eye who knows its mysteries, reveals much about what it is she seeks to fulfill her Friday night with.