“I wouldn’t have expected you to turn into some women’s libber once you zipped yourself into that Bunny suit,” Jerry said.

“I’ll bet Doris would agree with me. She’s probably giving your kids a bath while you’re ordering Harvey Wallbangers. Where’s a good place for her to go have fun?”

Jerry crossed his arms over his chest. “I bring her here for steaks sometimes. What’s gotten into you? This place has made you sassy.”

“I’ll go get your drinks,” she said. The room captain was scratching notes into his book. She’d stayed too long.

“Sherri,” Arthur said, with something like admiration in his eyes, “make mine a Manhattan.”

Arthur’s order, and his assertion of independence, pleased her, just as she was pleased that he took her seriously. She went back to being a Bunny. “Would you care to have your cocktail in a specialty mug so that you’ll have something to take home?” She stuck out her chest and held the black bunny-logo mug, forcing herself to smile, knowing she’d get twenty percent of the bill. Anything with the bunny logo seemed to sell; men had a primitive response to it.

Arthur cleared his throat. “I’ll take one if it’ll help you out.” His voice had a rare quality she loved in the male singers in the church choir. Low, but with a cry in it, like Springsteen.

“And you?” she asked Derzon. “Would you like a mug?”

“I can’t bring any more of those home with me. The trunk of my car is full of them.” He winked at Arthur.

“Got it.” She began to write their order down, distracted by the way Arthur looked at her, as if he really saw her, not as Bunny Sherri but as Sherri Taylor. Who was she anymore? “Did you say an old-fashioned?” How could she forget? She never forgot. She felt a warm rush of blood between her legs. No, no! She couldn’t bleed through. She looked around at the other Bunnies servicing their tables and thought about how the costumes made it look so easy to be a woman, but it wasn’t. It was horrible.

Arthur asked, “Are you OK?”