End of the Road

The call girl closed the door behind her and walked into the room. She was wearing a slinky cocktail dress and five inch heels, but she couldn't stop the tears from streaming down her face. She sat down on the bed and took in a deep breath before looking up at him. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping away her tears with a tissue from her purse. "It's just that this job… I can't do it anymore." The man looked at her with shock written across his face. He had never seen such emotion before. He was used to seeing women who were nothing more than robots—beautiful, yes, but cold and calculating, like machines made of flesh.