I still pay those women on the streets and walk away.
Still won't say a word—
barely even lock eyes, I smile, pay, and walk away.
Like I did 11 years ago.
Like I did another 5 before that.
The knot in my throat has only grown bigger.
Like a scar I won’t let fade,
I hold on to this memory.
The memory of that broken soul,
broken—yet beauty intact.
Funny how memory works—
it's 3 in the afternoon,
and I'm swept back to 3 in the morning—
that city that never sleeps,
that dingy alley,
that mattress reeking of bug spray,
and that wry smile as she lied—
"I'm 25."
The lie was soft, the question unimportant.
I had enjoyed it—I had smiled.
"Put on your shirt," I said.
Have I ever sounded as kind?
I don’t even pause to think.
It’s just habit now.
Just another ritual—like checking the lock 13 times.
It’s just another ritual.
But even as the paper leaves my fingers,
the weight is always the same.
The weight of her stare—
heavy, weakening, still pulling at my heart.
As ordinary now as I was then.
The world seems to have changed.
The 500 I paid for that hour seems smaller even.
As I thought then, I think now—
how low we men could stoop!
That pretend-excitement, that supposed adventure—
little did I know it would make me.
It was that night.
The boy turned man.
Dropped his innocence on the table with the ring.
Perhaps I thought it was fair—
she had lost hers six years prior.
I remember her clutching her stomach,
perhaps filling the void
that the unborn left.
Every time I think of it,
every time I try not to,
that sight pinches my heart.
My memory’s a winter window,
I barely see the past clear.
But those four lines of her story—
her voice quivering, tears pushing through closed lids—
wanting to tell more than she could.
I did hear more than was told.
Those four lines have been the longest I've ever heard.
She said she never saw the baby—
"It was gone," they said.
She cried and cried, she said.
But then she was too weak to cry.
Too weak to cry,
too weak for men twice her age and weight,
pressing down on her, she said.
How low can we men stoop to!
It feels like both an eternity and a second—
the moment that ring hit the table.
The contents of my wallet.
The ring.
And her voice— “too late for mercy.”
“It isn’t, mercy.” I had said.
“You could have lied,” she said.
I couldn’t be happier that I didn’t.
That soft, weightless kiss on my cheek.
Her name, the real one, as she whispered it—
to this day, locked in my chest.
I swore to myself never to tell the lads.
I keep that promise,
as close as I hold that hour to my heart.
Funny, looking back—
Walked out the door saying, "Nothing happened."
“Oh, we believe you,” they said.
Funny, the way I smiled.
Funny, the way I still do.
Oh, it was true I was lying.
Of what, only I knew.
I and her.
I still pay them on the streets and walk away—
maybe not as often, but I still do.
Still won’t say a word—
I barely even lock eyes.
I smile, pay, and walk away.
Note:
"I wrote a more raw version of this 11 years ago. After all these years, it called for a follow-up. The original was titled That Fair Lady. If anyone wishes to read it, I can share it here."
Instagram: AM (@am.poemsofsorts)
