Isabelle
Thomas walked off the wharf having unloaded the last of the crates. The money was good for all the hard labor he endured. His muscles were bulging and sore after all these months of working.
He walked to the tavern he frequented like the faithful to their religion. He ate the tavern fare and drank the local ale. Thomas never spoke a friendly word to anyone, nor looked them in the eye.
Today, he finished his meal and took a swig of ale as he did everyday. To his right, out of the corner of his eye was a blur of red and black. He did not have to set his drink down and look. He knew who it was leaning halfway over the bar, sideways, trying to “get a better look” at him.
She hadn’t appropriately washed off the scent of her past two lovers. Thomas glanced over at the dark haired woman, whose eyes held flirtatious gleam. He glanced at the festering sore near her lip, then down to her exposed ample cleavage. There was a time he would have welcomed her advances. Paid his fee.
A single thought crossed his mind instead, it was of the tear that fell down dear Isabelle’s cheek. He would dare to put another in it’s place, after wiping it away? “I’m not interested, leave me alone.” he turned away from her.
“I know you are.” the woman sat down beside him. “I know you know who I am, and what I do. I see you watching.” She turned to face him and spread her legs.
Thomas could smell the foul odor that now wafted in the air. It reminded him of his time as child on his “Uncle”’s farm. The odor the heifers put out when in season, and the smell of their afterbirth.
The woman leaned closer, he could smell her breath. It smelled like cod liver oil, mixed with wild onion and blood. She placed her hand on his inner thigh, slowly and gently she moved it upwards towards his groin. “I can make you feel good.” she cooed.
Thomas didn’t raise a hand to stop her. They were more akin than amiss, he and this whore. More suited to each other than he and Isabelle would ever be.
Thomas took a drink of his ale and ignored the woman trying to arouse him.
There would be no one for Isabelle if he left her to her own devices. For she had never cultivated any devices to manipulate or trap a man. Dear, plain, Isabelle. Whose heart beat for him, a woman. Not a whore, whose heart beats for money. Like his heart. Only now it seemed his heart yearned to beat with Isabelle’s in unison. One for the other. He pondered this feeling more deeply, intimately. He never noticed the whore had left him to pursue more profitable interests.