I'm plugged into his ears when he is drunk.
I'm plugged into his ears when he is guilty.
I'm plugged into his cliched ears when his lust growls, once, once again and he steps in as a customer.
He pays.
The bed creaks.
She, is naked and sweating.
A prostitute and that she is.
An earphone and that I am.
A customer and that he is.
By morning's light, he crawls out of the bed. Clad in clothes, libido's limbs, scattered dreams he walks out.
I lay there, next to her, equally naked, equally curled in a ball of life and routine. She picks me up, hangs me around her neck, wears me, plugs me into her humane ears and listens. Suddenly, I am close, closer to her wax, her derma, her scanty secrets, her sweat and scent.
A prostitute and that she is.
An earphone and that I am.
On nights, when she can't sell her body well, she misses people. Well, she a prostitute, didn't grow up just like that. Didn't you know? Once, she played in the meadows. On certain nights, she misses certain people. She will however never call them up. She will instead sit on the starry outskirts, free and caged. She won't play this time. Darling, she won't play.
I, a headphone, grew up just like that.
Mate, I played music. Always. But music? It's not the only thing that I loop. I loop memories, one and myriad. Humans are ironic beings. Sometimes they are 206 bones and 600 muscles who are supposed to breathe, sleep, eat, work and reproduce. Sometimes they are blues, nothing more, nothing less, symmetries of emotions and emotions alone, smiling, weeping, writing.
He might return. He might pay.
He might ask, "Did I forget my earphones?"
An earphone and that I am.
A prostitute and that she is.
She will say, "No, you didn't."