One for the Robot—Two for the Same
by Rog Phillips
The door frame was white set in brick. The door was stained oak. I reached out to lift the knocker and saw I had a fist full of money. I reached out with the other hand. It had the card in it. I hooked the little finger under the knocker and lifted it, letting it fall. It emitted a feeble tap.
After a while I saw the door moving inward. Pausing in my futile stabbing for my pockets, I lifted my eyes slowly, beginning with the shapely hips encased in spotlessly clean watermelon red, past the slim waist with its black belt, pausing at the firm lift of the breast, jumping to the smooth neck, and finally coming to the face with its smooth contours, red lips, blue eyes lit with questioning curiosity, and iridescent waves of spun brown hair.
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