Circumstances of the Divorce

He pressed his forehead against the brothel entrance and once again wrestled with his conscience. He was a good provider. They shared a tidy two bedroom house with a warm hearth. They dined daily in a kitchen overflowing with delicious delectables that she, with a master cook’s alchemy, transformed into magical morsels which coaxed the saliva from his mouth. They would retire to bed early in the cold night and murmur sweet somethings into each other’s ear canals, sometimes to smuggle a moist tongue down dark crevices in a spelunking expedition of the flesh. They were happy.

Then the money troubles had come. His employers let him go, and though he quickly found another source of income, the revenue was not the same. He worked harder for less, and soon the stores of their once plentiful pantry dwindled. She found a job in the next town putting away clothes in a tailor’s shop, and came home too exhausted to brew supper. Daily dinners consisted of them staring sullenly at each other over the click of utensils on chipped plates of hard bread, rubbery meat, and old cheese. She stopped fucking him, with excuses of excess exhaustion and horrible headaches. He would masturbate on his side of the bed while she slept soundly on hers, and collect the spunk with the dank rank of the day’s used socks.

He softly beat his head against the rough door for a moment more before resolve gripped his being and pressed open the baleful doors with sweaty palms as his heart thrust a staccato against his ribcage. The heat of hell enveloped him as he departed the winter’s clean chill to step into the perfume permeated den of iniquity. Sweat broke out on his brow as his soles squeaked on the sawdust floor. A slipped hand into a tattered pocket gingerly felt the cold clink of currency, and the hall that shrank into the dim distance seemed to recede while the Madame matronly, with a knowing smile, bade him to follow her elephantine tread. The mole that perched above her plump upper lip appeared to wink at him as she turned away, to acknowledge a scurrilous fraternity of mortal sin.

By her fat arms the door at the end of the hall was spread wide open to the muted hue of lamp glow and when he alone passed through, it creaked softly shut. As the thuds of Madame’s heavy departure faded, satiny rustlings accented by the occasional log crackling in the warm hearth soon dominated the bedchamber. The redsheeted bed stretched out like the plain of hell in the orange light. Her face was hidden in the folds of cloth that heaped upon her prostrate figure but for a sparsely coiffed cunt which gleamed wetly between exposed legs slowly fluttering in the wan light. A queer sense of déjà vu seized him. His stomach, already troubled by his conscience’s failings, churned once more.

Like a moon gliding along the parabola to its place in the sky, her face left the crest of blankets and under widening jeweled eyes the soft circlet of her alarmingly familiar lips rounded into an O of surprise.

“Andrzej! W-what are you doing here?”



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