By Hugh Cartwright
I despise the red-light district, but I’ve no choice. I must visit Charlene.
Her window is her calling-card. Scarlet underwear slung along a curtain rail, draped against the glass. Panties heavy with trinkets and tokens left by grateful clients, mementos safety-pinned up as they depart.
A woman ushers me into the blood-red room.
Charlene’s “busy right now,” so I must wait. Within moments my nerves get the better of me, and I turn to leave.
But first, I add my own contribution.
I safety-pin my husband’s wedding ring to her D-cup bra.
I’m certain he’ll see it by tomorrow.
Hugh lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he writes to provide relief from his hopeless goal of growing Canadian oranges.