Care to eat something, son?

T had a rugged ugly face and hard rock body. He was given an addressee in a seedy neighborhood where he would go up to the third floor of a decadent building. The visit should be between 10 and 11 a.m. on certain days of the week. He was told by a friend to be careful and keep it quiet. A fiftyish woman would open the door and take him in silence inside the apartment where they could have sex. The woman was a widow with grown up son and daughter who should be in their universities at the time.

T did as he was instructed. He found the widow, who was wearing a pajama, more unattractive than he thought. She took him by hand to the hallway and started to pull her pants down. When he asked her if they could do it in bed, she coldly replied that if they went to the bedroom, they had to close the windows' shutters and that would attract the attention of her nosy neighbours.

It took around 10 minutes. He felt pain in his knees because they were standing up and she was shorter than him.

That was it? I asked.

T answered me: No, the only words she uttered in a soulless voice after we finished and while I was adjusting myself: Care to eat something, son? I said no and hurried my way down to the street.