"Benedicta," Burr purrs, kissing the madam on both cheeks. Another woman takes his coat, his cane, his hat. All things he will not be needing, in the course of this evening.
No better way to squander an afternoon than in the arms of a prostitute, he should say. He has nothing else to entertain him outside of his work, besides smoking and drinking and going on walks about the city. Living life slowly, insignificantly, as he has for the past some years, since Theodosia perished in that godforsaken boat somewhere of the eastern coast.
At least he can continue to champion the cause of forgotten women, for all they are ignored in the shape of US politics. What space for their rights, in the face of war with Mexico, and the rights of slaves?
"We have someone I think you might like," Benedicta tells him, leading him into the basement, the small, luxuriant rooms they keep for special occasion--less smell escapes to the street down here, and Benedicta makes it a point of pride, not relying on those scents to draw customers in. Not good for the whores, for there to be any level of deception involved. "He's young, and scrappy. A bit of fire in him,"
And yes, Burr is willing to pay extra for him, spread his money around to those in need, and all that. He can smell it already, when he is outside the door--those first heat smells, and already his body is reacting in anticipation.
Pushing the door open, a beautiful little thing, with long hair and a pointed noise, sitting on the bed, turning his face, and--
Burr would recognize him anywhere. How he looked the first fated day they had met, in some insignificant town, some insignificant bar. Doomed from the first meeting. Ah, he had forgotten, how naive and innocent Alexander had looked, before that fervor for power had warped his mind.
Burr cannot be here. Enough lives have already been ruined. He turns on his heel.
no subject
No better way to squander an afternoon than in the arms of a prostitute, he should say. He has nothing else to entertain him outside of his work, besides smoking and drinking and going on walks about the city. Living life slowly, insignificantly, as he has for the past some years, since Theodosia perished in that godforsaken boat somewhere of the eastern coast.
At least he can continue to champion the cause of forgotten women, for all they are ignored in the shape of US politics. What space for their rights, in the face of war with Mexico, and the rights of slaves?
"We have someone I think you might like," Benedicta tells him, leading him into the basement, the small, luxuriant rooms they keep for special occasion--less smell escapes to the street down here, and Benedicta makes it a point of pride, not relying on those scents to draw customers in. Not good for the whores, for there to be any level of deception involved. "He's young, and scrappy. A bit of fire in him,"
And yes, Burr is willing to pay extra for him, spread his money around to those in need, and all that. He can smell it already, when he is outside the door--those first heat smells, and already his body is reacting in anticipation.
Pushing the door open, a beautiful little thing, with long hair and a pointed noise, sitting on the bed, turning his face, and--
Burr would recognize him anywhere. How he looked the first fated day they had met, in some insignificant town, some insignificant bar. Doomed from the first meeting. Ah, he had forgotten, how naive and innocent Alexander had looked, before that fervor for power had warped his mind.
Burr cannot be here. Enough lives have already been ruined. He turns on his heel.