Please could you proofread the second part of my short story.
“How many men did you have this year?”
“Let me see.” She counted on the fingers of his right hand. “Victor, Peter, Marco and Jonny.”
“And there was something wrong with everyone of them?
“Of course. They use us as things and throw us away whenever they want so why shouldn’t we do the same?”
Then their discussion turned to more prosaic themes, like a pair of expensive shoes they had seen in the shop, a new spring collection at "Hennes and Maurice" and the dogs they wanted to buy to compete with their acquaintances. Apparently, to have a little dog which one could carry everywhere was the latest craze in town.
The more they talked the less I became excited and instead, started thinking pity of them. I could only imagine what kind of life they were living from the morning when they woke up until they want to bed. They had been living in one of the richest countries in the world, but spiritually they were poorer than people in the third world countries. In their minds, the whole cultural history of Europe and the rest of the world was nothing but a large hole which would never be filled. Descartes, Kant, Bach and similar personalities would never get a chance to enter their minds.
I could imagine what their lives are going to look like in the next twenty years: hunting for men, wild parties, drugs, alcohol, travels to popular tourist destinations and everlasting discussion about fashion, haircuts, make up, pats and gossips about celebrities. Finally I am going to meet them again in one of those places usually visited by single middle aged women looking for any man they could take with them to their bed. Their faces will be wrinkled after years of drinking, smoking, and sleepless nights and their grey, dull hair will probably be cut short.
Every time when they will be outside they have to compete with hundreds of other women with similar looks, clothes and haircuts. And as the times passes they will be more desperate because their age will wear them down, make them less attractive and more bitter. They will probably feel that something is missing in their lives, but still they will never understand the real root of the problem.
Soon the two girls rose and walked towards the exit. I watched their attractive, tight bodies disappearing behind the glass door and I comforted myself with the thought that although my loneliness was often painful and difficult to bear I was at least spared the games that people around me played with each other.
I turned to the book in my hands and wanted to indulge myself in the beauty of literature, but I still could not concentrate myself on the text. I was thinking of my fellow man who would soon be dumped and experience the pain of unrequited love - another victim of our high speed society.