Nothing of a Woman

I knew of a woman, knew well of a woman, not one time in my youth. Her golden curls hung limply around a pale face, hollowed out with hunger. To her I would run, in lonely night hours, spending my father’s inheritance, wrought from his recent demise. I pretended at my own goodness, observing the battle-wounds left on her counterparts…for I never laid a hand on her, well, if only in love. Cheap perfume and candle stub smoke filled the heavy air, nauseating and intoxicating me. There we would lay, exchanging secrets, both of body and of mind. And when the job was done I would leave her, with a lighter purse in hand. I saw her once, by chance, she in her rags and I in my suit, business man as I was. And I started with a violent jolt, seeing a child in her arms. And that dear woman would take the coins, I knew from whence they came, to buy bread for the little boy. For her own self she spent nothing, and I wondered at her kindness while the boy threw crumbs to the birds. But the next night was the same, and the next night after that…for I was a man of means and could not trouble my mind for a whore. And my heart bore the shame, as did the walls that knew my sin. Both have cracked and grown weary, as arthritic hands, underneath the knowledge of my indifference.