He watches her as she leans against the open window of the man's car, her heavily coated red lips spilling out murmured, seductive words and her colored eyelids half-closed in a soft gaze. He notices her form-fitting clothes, the front of which allows her breasts to slyly peek out from. He sees her direct posture, her experienced words, her slow, sweet tone. One of her long, red fingernails is making deliberate, slow patterns against the side of the car, and another is wrapping itself coyly around the ends of her hair. She had practiced these routines for a while now, spent years improving and modifying them, trashing the useless pieces of her acts and adding new ones. She uses the same ones on every man she lures in, and they seem to work. He sees the man nod in agreement, his captivated eyes examining her body like a farmer would his freshly harvested crops, sees him as he sneaks money into the palm of the woman's outstretched hands. He watches as the woman opens the door of the car and steps in, and watches, upset and disappointed, as the man drives the woman away.
He remembers her. He remembers her face, the face that is now unrecognizable under the colors and creams. He remembers her hair, the hair that is now destroyed by heat and chemicals. He remembers her voice, the voice that is now invaded by lust and seduction. His memories go way back, to the days when she was still full of happiness, beauty, and innocence. He remembers her when she began to walk, when she began to talk, when she began to crawl. His memories go further, to the day she was born, to the day she developed in her mother's womb. He remembers her birthdays, remembers her happiness and sadness, her achievements and failures. He remembers her smiles and frowns, her laughs and cries, and everything else in between.
How could she have plummeted down to this level?
He doesn't want to see her now, doesn't want to believe it. He doesn't want to see as she allows herself to be pushed by the aggressive man, whose eyes are open greedily and whose lips are curled hungrily, upon a bed of passion and covered under a blanket of desire. He doesn't want to watch! He tries to look away, but it's impossible. He remembers forming her, molding her, ever so gently, ever so carefully, making sure she was perfect and complete. But even now, even though He is angry at and disappointed in her, when a cold breeze is just about to pass by the curtains of the window, He causes it to be soft and gentle, soothing. When her heart pauses in her chest for only a split second, He causes it to start again, to continue.
He wants to forgive her. He wants to make everything all right again, wants to make things as they used to be.