The woman sits on the edge of the bed. Soft pouches of flesh under her cheeks jiggle as she speaks. Her face is forever sinking under the weight of time, gravity. “Any is good,” she says, in an Eastern Bloc accent that floods his mind with images of Cold War television specials. John stands there, his pants around his ankles.

“I — uh — did you… I can’t do this if… ,” John says.
She stares at him with deep set eyes and smiles; deep lines crack through peach foundation at the edges of her eyes and lips.

John clumsily rolls the condom off, grabs his flask off the desk, takes a big slug and walks downstairs. He looks at the Madame by the window, her face blue-grey and covered in the dark shadows of rain drop trails.

He bunches up a sheet strewn near the door, soaks it in whiskey, lights it on fire, and walks out of the brothel. He watches it burn from the outside. Only one woman escapes.

It was a New York hellhouse masquerading as a brownstone bordello, but it was home. It was her home.