au restaurant chinois

there they sit, the scented three...
nameless consorts on day leave from the bedroom tedium of mild-mannered iniquity.
under the chinese lanterns in the arid jasmine haze, they compare pungent notes over fickle bowls of rice and luridly stained cups.
the one with the egyptian eyes scurries sharp painted nails across bangs of lacquered ebony, while the sliver of a fading blonde smokes on in silken agony. the third, committed in the corner, quivers in scant foreign distress - her innocuous dress creeping slowly up soft placid thighs.
all afternoon long they sit, picking idly at their words, until the cold unfinished dishes are returned to the kitchen, and the sullen young waiter has had his puerile eyeful while ferrying more glasses and ashtrays to and fro.
the sedentary patronne now shoots a rueful glance at the clock above - a conspicuous signal for the lax odalisque trio to leave and find their respective clients du jour in the half-hearted spell of a paris night...