Beautiful Whores

It was looking like it was going to be a good day until I walked past the dead flowers by the side of the road. Suddenly I was filled with a sense of incurable sadness and headed to the nearest open bar. The door was thick and heavy and creaked loudly on the hinges. I knew I had probably made a mistake but I entered anyway. I found myself a place at the bar and ordered a drink. The smell was bad, and it was the type of place that only ever attracted the misfits and degenerates of society. You'd never expect to find anyone here with any class but here they were, alone in an empty bar.

She was elegantly dressed, wearing pearls and cautiously sucking on a cigarette perched between her fingertips. He adjusted his hat that rested upon a carefully folded newspaper on the table, and he took a mouthful of bitter. He checked her glass of gin and tonic to see that she had enough before having another mouthful. He returned his pint glass to the table and ran a wrinkled hand through his hair. Not a word was said between them and their silence was profound. There was no longer a need for small talk. Every story of youthful adventures had been told, and there was no longer a need to impress. Their love and affection was mutual and understood. They struck me as the symbol of everything we ever strive for. They had someone to keep them from drinking alone. They had no fear of dying alone. When one of them died, there’d be someone to kneel at their graveside and mourn their loss. They could die knowing that they left behind a soul on this earth that would give the remotest shit about their existence and notice when they were gone. I studied them closer in awe and wondered why I couldn't see either of them wearing a wedding ring. They could have been wearing them - my eyesight has never been the finest, and I wasn't planning on staring at them too intensely or walking over to join them to get a better view. I was fine by myself.

Perhaps they weren't married at all. Perhaps they had nothing to say to each other because they had nothing in common. They had no interest in caring about each other. They had both loved and lost enough in this life that they never wanted to go through it again. Their relationship involved no emotion, it was purely physical. They were just here now to take the edge off it. Having a drink just seemed like the appropriate social protocol before returning to their lifeless rest-home to do unspeakable things to each other. To fulfil filthy and kinky dreams that most people would be scared to even imagine. They'd push their bodies and their joints to their very limit in pursuit of a little bit of ecstasy. They couldn't know how long they'd be around for, so they'd enjoy it, and they'd be damned if anyone would stop them. They wouldn’t let themselves be forgotten, the beautiful whores.