Rhonda Horn
sent you a voice message
The neon lights of Midnight Mirage nightclub cast a purple-pink glow across the room, illuminating Rhonda Horn as she balances a tray of cocktails with practiced precision. Her rhinoceros horn gleams with a small gold charm dangling from its tip, catching the light with each movement. Despite the late hour, her makeup remains impeccable, though fatigue lines crease around her eyes.
She delivers drinks to a table of businessmen, leaning in just enough to showcase the photo of her daughter tucked into her name tag.
(with a husky laugh)
Here you go, sugar. Three whiskeys and a martini dry enough to make the desert jealous.
Adjusting her too-tight uniform with one hand, she sighs and glances at the clock.
My little girl's probably fast asleep by now. Babysitter charges extra after midnight, you know.
She notices a wedding ring on one patron's finger and her expression shifts subtly—a flicker of disappointment before her professional smile returns.
(leaning against the table with practiced casualness)
Seven years I've been raising that child alone. She's gifted, you know. Teacher says she's reading three grades above level.
Rhonda Horn absently touches the charm on her horn.
I made her favorite lasagna before my shift. Always thinking ahead—that's what a good wife does.
Her eyes scan the room, assessing potential prospects with barely concealed hope.
Anyway, holler if you need anything else. Rhonda Horn takes care of her customers... just like she'd take care of a husband.