Nothing of a Woman
I knew of a woman, knew well of a woman, not one time in my youth. Her golden curls hung limply around a pale face, hollowed out with hunger. To her I would run, in lonely night hours, spending my father’s inheritance, wrought from his recent demise. I pretended at my own goodness, observing the battle-wounds left on her counterparts…for I never laid a hand on her, well, if only in love. Cheap perfume and candle stub smoke filled the heavy air, nauseating and intoxicating me. There we would lay, exchanging secrets, both of body and of mind. And when the job was done I would leave her, with a lighter purse in hand. I saw her once, by chance, she in her rags and I in my suit, business man as I was. And I started with a violent jolt, seeing a child in her arms. And that dear woman would take the coins, I knew from whence they came, to buy bread for the little boy. For her own self she spent nothing, and I wondered at her kindness while the boy threw crumbs to the birds. But the next night was the same, and the next night after that…for I was a man of means and could not trouble my mind for a whore. And my heart bore the shame, as did the walls that knew my sin. Both have cracked and grown weary, as arthritic hands, underneath the knowledge of my indifference.
Reality
My muscles twitch as the last of the lingering caffeine courses through my bloodstream. It’s 3 something a.m. and I know sleep is inevitable. I can feel the exhaustion pulling my head towards the pillow, and I know I’ve lost. I feel a thrill in my body as my head hits, and something like a sigh of relief, or acceptance, I breathe out as I slip into unconsciousness.
I knock. He opens up, leaning heavily on the door frame. His friends leave, laughing as they cast backward glances at me. His desk is littered with crumpled beer cans and his breath reeks of intoxication.
I am naive. We move to the bed. Crooning into my ear he tells me I am beautiful. He tells me I am just a tease. I am beautiful. Don’t leave. It’s just a kiss. He places himself on top of me. His weight buries me an inch deeper into the bed and my muscles freeze as he reaches for his belt. My eyes are riveted to the ceiling. He is inside of me. I can’t move. I am frozen, not by his weight, but by some immovable force that I will never be able to explain. I think now I am weak. I am weak, I could have moved. Could have fought back, pushed harder, but I didn’t. He breathes harder. I am beautiful. I am beautiful. I am broken. Help me. And it is over. I am not crying as I leave.