"Those slaves, those whores, those concubines sicken me – they absolutely sicken me. They stand out there on the street corners, offering their bodies to the highest bidder, any man who will give them a handful of bills for a night of sick pleasure. How do they look at themselves in the mirror? Can they not see the soulless, hollow creature that resides within? Why do they feel that they can get away with this? That their lives are so worthless that they must degrade themselves like this?" Jezebel sighed and tapped her cigarette into the glass ashtray that sat upon the green Formica counter at Betsy's, the local diner on the corner of 9th and Verne. She sat with her back against the wall and her feet resting on the aged red vinyl cushions. The neon sign above her flickered in annoyance, advertising that the weathered establishment was a 24-hour deal. Her coffee sat cooling on the table as her flavor-of-the-week lover sat in the seat across from her, sketching her lithe frame in the glow of the city lights.
"Do you always have to comment on everything, Jez?" her lover said, not looking up from his sketchpad.
She chuckled and took another drag from the cigarette before rudely blowing the smoke in his face with a malicious yet seductive grin.
"And what else am I supposed to do? Sit here idly, smoking my Cloves as I listen to the sound of your pencil scratching across the paper? I'm not apt to sit somewhere with company and not utter a word."
Her lover closed his eyes, shook his head and resumed drawing. "I wish you'd stop smoking too. It's not good for you."
