The Whore

In the morning a woman exits an appartment hurriedly, coffee mug in her hand.
'Late?' my eyes ask. Friendly.
'I drink it in the car.' She tells me.
We smile at each other as we wait for the lift.

In the evening I get into the lift with another woman.
Covered. Smelling strongly.
The curls of her coloured, fake hair sticking out under the cloth of her head cover. An abaya parting at her legs, covers her body.
Sun glasses.
She doesnt' talk.
She enters an appartment.

The same one.