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.

6 thoughts on “Pin-ups

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