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The Whore


Paul Dyer


© 2011 by Paul Dyer


Smashwords Edition


Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Mid thirties, scruffy, a rhapsody in blond, moth-eaten blond beard shadowing his sharp, narrow jaw—Justus Fawley bundled himself into a trench and took to the unusually cold streets of Hollywood at roughly two in the morning. At that time of night, when a city as sick and sacred as Los Angeles, opened its sewers, mangy kittens and rats in sequins crawled up into the neon light of faux-day, and the painter in Justus saw vices and demons acquire names the sun usually swept into raucous anonymity.

You could never know the loveliness of a whore if she’d already ceased to be a woman.

At Sunset and Gower, he spotted her near a busstop, a brew of smelly colors and incongruent fabrics, pushing a shoppingcart back and forth and walking in place.

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