Of Corianders and Forget-Me-Nots

"Why did you come back?" she said, a smoke tucked expertly between slender fingers.

Silence mostly occupied the dank room. She had been sitting quietly, having lit her first cigarette. The first of many.

"Why shouldn't I?" he said, reclining.

"Is it love?"

"You put it too bluntly."

The night had been filled with sensations and delights, as was the custom. No subtle words are needed to describe this room of pleasure, it is as it is: a brothel room. A room for sex.

She had been employed as a vagina for hire. While it is natural to hate the job, she draws pleasure from what little she can get from it. After all, being paid for sex is awesome right? Why mope over your pitiful existence if there's nothing you can do about it? Why cry if you can enjoy? Isn't that what sex is for anyway?

He had been her patron. While she has locked genitals with many others, his in particular had been the most familiar. He works by day as a small-scale businessman, nothing illegal or anything. After all, his meager income does brings food to the table; and with his wife and kids away, the only mouth he has to feed is his own.

"You know that I do..." he said coyly, rolling over and facing her, gazing at her sultry body.

She took a long hard sip. Menthol quickly filled her breath.

"Honey... I love you... There I said it..." nudging himself toward her. The bed groaned and creaked in protest.

Grey wisps of tobacco vapor filled the void immediately in front of her. The wisps swayed and danced like sprites in a frenzy.

Silence once again.

"I've had that shit so many times. I'm a whore you know, I've heard that phrase all too many times. I love you this, I love you that. Do you honestly think I even give those words any value?" she said, her moving lips being the only hint that the words indeed came from her.

He remained silent. Out of words or out of will, he couldn't even figure out.

A knock on the door signalled their borrowed time of bliss is over. Rising up, he headed for the shower to freshen up. She was about finished with her third stick.

As he headed for the exit, he left quite a sum of money on a plate atop a bedside drawer. The rolled notes slowly unraveled as he turned the knob on the door. The old pins and pinions inside the knob made a distinct noise metallic noise as he slowly inched the door ajar.

"Will... You be back tomorrow?" she asked, her eyes still locked in oblivion, slender fingers still clutching a smoke.

"Maybe..."

Much like everything inside that room of sensations, the door made painful noises as it opened. He took a step forward, toward the hall leading back to the reception counter where other patrons were waiting for their turn. Toward the road that leads back to his small townhouse unit. Toward reality.

"Take care then..." she said.

The stick slipped through her slender fingers. She headed for the shower to freshen up.