"To All the Girls I Loved Before"

After many failed loves Bob decided he would hire a hooker. He was twenty-five and had never consummated a relationship. He had girlfriends, but the usual downfall was he wanted marriage. Most women his age were just beginning to live and saw marriage as an old archaic form of imprisonment. He also blamed his looks for the ending of some relationships. The woman in his life ended up dating another man, one unlike him.

He was five feet and four inches tall, and his girth was restricted to his limited body space. He had a kind and pudgy face with cheeks of a pet store gerbil, fuzzy and soft. Bob's one outstanding feature was his labret ring below his lip. It was harsh on his soft face; it seemed out of place when he wore a suit to work. This was an act done when he first started college, a rebellion from his mother's dominance, but now with her gone and no more to rebel against, it sat there to remind him of the past. His face had not changed much since then, he still had his goatee and glasses. To some he resembled a big teddy bear; soft and cuddly with a round face. His dark henna eyes were often wide as if some thing of great value was in his sight.

He took Miss Vicky back to his dark and damp basement apartment. She was a semi slender woman with a long face. She looked older than her age of thirty, and all her scars from the street were represented in her premature wrinkles in her brow. Her hair was died blond, like the usual style is among occupations of her kind, and was cut just below her shoulders. Her bare shoulders caught a slight chill once she removed her faux mink coat. The lighting from the fluorescent lights above hurled an eerie shadow on her face. On one side there was darkness, while the other shined like a dying star.

This contrast intrigued Bob. He in some way felt bad for Miss Vicky, but nonetheless she was there for business. He must lock away his feelings for humanity to do his deed. He told her to sit on his paisley printed couch, worn with age and smelling of old chicken noodle soup. Her slender legs wrapped in fishnets remained active even while her body rested. Bob's stomach was feeling the same way, uneasy and in turmoil. He thought about his actions and wondered if they were right. Did he want his first sexual encounter to be with a hooker, or someone he loved? He soon laughed the idea off, love that is, and approached Miss Vicky. He bent down to sniff her hair that smelled of old street tar. There was a small leaf still clinging to a strins of her bleached hair. He gently removed it and let it drop to her stiletto trapped feet. She eyed him as if he was some great anomaly in her cruel world. He embraced her dirty hand and put his soft lips to it. He got up slowly and paced over to his refrigerator. He swung the dingy white door open and bent down to retrieve the orange juice. He closed the door and reached for two glasses in his sink. One was a coffee mug with stains and a chip on the handle, the other a tall blueish colored glass. Bob poured the orange juice into her glass first and gave it to her. He went back and filled his mug, and returned to her side on the lumpy couch. He stared at her with curiosity. Bob wondered what her real hair color was and where she was from. He asked, but she replied, "That has nothing to do with business. Now if you don't mind can we get this over with. I have a long night in front of me and I cannot be here sipping juice!" The intrusiveness by Bob scared her. He wanted to find out more about Miss Vicky than her external skin. He wanted to know why and how she ended on the street. Bob noticed her belly her shirt slipped up as she put her coat on; there were stretch marks. He asked her, "So do you have any children?" To that Miss Vicky ran out of the basement door crying. Bob stared down the hall at the open door. He then saw his reflection in the mirror across the room; there he sat alone with one small leaf at his foot.