“Your children are beautiful,” she said, handing back his wallet after removing several bills. Her mouth was fringed by bitten-off melon lipstick, a calm kind of mad. She told him to call her Sally, “like the song McCartney rips his lungs on.” She was a different kind of whore but this hotel room was the same as the ones before, empty and strained, the smut of a stain on the white coffee cup never rubbed away. “Of course, children are always beautiful,” she concluded, “it’s adults who go ugly.”…
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Posted on April 17, 2009 at 10:21am — 5 Comments