I paid a whore in Bitcoin.
Her mouth opened and light shot from her teeth and eyes. You don’t own me, she said. I told her to say it again and she did, over and over as I thrust from behind. The light from her face revealed cracks in the wall, so I flipped her on her back and she kicked me in the eye.
“I’m not a buffet!” she yelled. “I’m not some last minute Kung Pao!”
“Okay.”
“My name used to be Frances.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“More,” she said. “I want more.”
***
On our honeymoon I dreamed I got diabetes for Christmas and herpes for Valentine’s Day. When I woke up it was beef tips and roasted potatoes every Father’s Day for 37 years. Who knew whores were ever reliable? One day I came home and all four kids were playing with Legos on the floor with their odd, literal Dutch uncle while she played some beautiful tune on the clarinet that wasn’t Jerry Reed or Bob Seger .
“Found it at a pawn shop,” she said. “I think I’m a prodigy.”
I didn’t know what to make of it. Her long blonde hair was in a ponytail. Her flowery dress went past her knees.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked.
“Rib roast and potatoes.”
It wasn’t even Father’s Day.
***
As I lay dying at 72, Frances held my hand. “You never gave me herpes or divorce papers,” I said.
“I never was a hooker,” she confessed. “I was filling in for my sister that day. She had The Cough.”
“Yeah? I always thought you picked up the clarinet a little too fast,” I said.
“Ten years of lessons. My parents’ dream.”
“You’re good.”
“I hope you were happy enough,” she said.
“Eternity’s going to suck compared to this,” I said.
“Not bad, then?”
Not bad at all.
Finis