Two-souled bastards

People, they never stop smoking on the middle of the street, huh? There were many cigarette butts under my feet, god knows how many stories each of them told.

The one near the curb, with that squeezed and bent look. That was probably from a short-fingered fellow, dirt stains, lipstick. What a life might he lead?

May he goes home to his wife, to his kids, and then when nobody is looking, sneaks a quick peck with a lady?

Maybe someone from work, a neighbor perhaps. Another person another perspective. Why does she do it? Why does she cheat? If he smokes, maybe she does too.

Those tended to be their type, cigarettes for women: light, long cigarettes, the ones they put on special pipes. Do they even sell those anymore?

Our modern mystery lady is only that, a cliche. She's likely just another common citizen, maybe she has marital problems, feels unloved, lonely, aging.

Or maybe she never liked her husband in the first place, she just married him for the money, never even really liked him.

How many of those ladies are there? How many walk among us? And how many cheating husbands, with the gnomes suspicion and hypocrisy on their shoulders ask the same question every day?

"She, she's doing it too bucko, maybe your wife is into it, your mom might have been one."

And then the smoker with whiskey-breath pats your back, and shares good camaderie with you on the bar.

"Women right, no way to live with them, except without them!"

And you smile, and he smiles. Women, men, just who we are.