“Good afternoon, I’m your Bunny Sherri.” She said it the way she’d said it hundreds of times, only this time she didn’t need to introduce herself. Sherri did what she always did. She set down some bunny-logo cocktail napkins from her tray. She stood with one foot behind the other, her hips unnaturally squared toward him just the way she was taught.

“Well well, Bunny Sherri, huh? Arthur, this here’s Sherri Taylor, a back-home girl.” It was jarring to hear her real, proper name spoken aloud here. Jerry took a juicy drag off his cigar. “No movement on the building, I’m afraid. Interest rates—” He whistled. “—sky high. It’s a tough market. Nothing’s moving. Not a thing.”

“I’ve left you some messages.”

“Wish I had news. But don’t worry, we’ll get it sold. You can always sell it to me. I told you my price. I know it’s low, but these are hard times.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, and she had been, although her mother made Sherri swear not to sell too low. She’d said they’d worked too hard on the building to let it go for a song.

“Tell me,” Jerry said. “You still play organ?”

“Not at this exact moment.”

“Arthur, Sherri here plays like an angel,” Jerry said. Sherri could hardly remember seeing Jerry in church on the few occasions she’d filled in for Mrs. Vogel. She gazed at the indoor pool through the thick sheet of glass. People swam and lounged poolside, while Danny, Joe, and Flip, the attendants, tried to connect with the guests, hoping someone would offer them a job or an investment opportunity, anything to give them a chance to become captains of industry. In the summer, Danny said, they’d work the outdoor pool and offer to apply Native Tan to the guests for a dollar, and they made a fortune. Danny had all kinds of schemes to skim money from the pockets of visiting businessmen. He saw Sherri and waved, but she was holding her tray, so she couldn’t wave back.

On the other side of the plate glass, it seemed everyone was having fun. For the first time since she’d started working as a Bunny, she wondered what it would be like to be a guest, to be served, to be a watcher instead of the watched.

Jerry, trying to be impressive, a regular Mr. Realtor, pulled his gold Playboy key out of his pocket and began to wave it in front of her face with pride. Smoke dribbled out of his nose. “I’m a member.” The card slipped out of his hand and landed on the plush orange carpeting without a sound.