Copyright 1994(c) 
 
                        SCATTERED IMAGES 
                           By Gay Bost
 
     "Conservatives," Cypra grumbled. "I've walked into a den of 
Conservatives." Quietly-dressed men gathered at the buffet, 
wingtips butted against the gleaming chrome base of the oak paneled
display. Pastels swirls of silk moved through the room amidst the
scent of delicate perfumes. She had her eye on the boiled shrimp
but knew better than to get between the American Business Man and
his seafood. They could become quite savage. She still sported a
scar on the back of her arm where a prominent Anaheim lawyer had
speared her with a cocktail fork. 'From sea to shining sea,' she
thought.  
     She sipped her drink and looked into the mirror, watching the 
concentration the bartender gave a small booklet he was scribbling
in. 'Racing form or crossword puzzle? she wondered.  
     Behind the bar a radio played. No music, but the braggadocio
of Missouri's Sweetheart. Today he spoke at length on the snacking
habits of the Leader of the Free World. Cypra snorted her laughter.
"Ruby's got a surprise for you, Mr. Limbaugh." she said. The  
bartender swiveled on his heel and stared at her, eyes wide.  
     "You don't mean...?" he began with some trepidation, "You 
don't know that Begonia woman!" He peered over the glasses which
perched precariously on the tip of his nose and examined the woman
who had ensconced herself on his leather cushion.  
     Cypra leaned her delicate chin into a cup of long-tapered 
fingers and smiled sweetly at him. Her lashes lowered slowly over
blue eyes. A wisp of ash blonde hair fell forward onto her 
forehead. "Hmmm?" she inquired. "Make me up another Moscow Mule,
will you? I'm getting hungry."  
     With one brow arched he watched her move toward the thinning
buffet line. "Definitely out of place, that one," he said under 
his breath.  
     Where pastels and flowers bloomed she glided in with long legs
and deep greens. Where quiet reigned she laughed aloud at a comment
one of the regulars made, drawing the notice of his secretary, who
likewise arched a brow.  
     The gentleman in question, a respected facilitator of domestic
opulence, flashed her his best real-estate magnate smile and 
touched her arm. His secretary rose gracefully and approached the
buffet.  
     "Adam," she purred. "You've only an hour for lunch today.  
Remember?" Her lower lip dropped, exposing exquisite dental work.
The corners of her mouth curled upward.  
     "Oh, don't let me detain you, sir," Cypra interjected, 
slipping past the man to spear several hefty prawns. "I'm due at
the car wash for my shift in 30 minutes." She waltzed back to the
bar and planted her rear on the soft leather. She didn't see the
smirk on the woman's face nor the shock on the man's.  
     The bartender set her drink down on a clean napkin, whispering
"Car wash?"  
     "Some days," she commented, popping an ice cold morsel into
her mouth, "it's the little victories a woman lives for." She 
sipped and added, "Turn Rush up. I want to hear what he's got to
say about *Clinton's* eating habits."  
     ... A cat must either have beauty and breeding, or it must 
have a job.  
                               END