epistolary, life

Red Lights.

She knows he can not pay. Her door remains locked. A student with no cash, he is depositing the memory of her perfect curves within his wank-bank, so can splash out later. Yet she puts on a show.

She pulls at her nipples, teasing them hard. Running her hands over her firm breasts and down over her flat stomach. She gives a wiggle, then turns. He can see thin black material circling her waist then disappearing between the cheeks of her petite ass.

Why? Maybe she hopes that in a few years this boy will return to her, a man with disposable income and energy to burn. He will come back to this very window, remembering her as she is now – perfection. Not the Amsterdam relic she will soon become, ignored for not being young enough, or beautiful enough. With her wider hips, and softer breasts. Too old for this job at the age of twenty-eight.

Or perhaps she is performing this routine for the benefit of the man with the camera. He stands across the street, staring, as he has done for the last hour. He is too old to be acknowledged by someone as young and beautiful as she, not without payment. But how much will she cost? Two hundred Euros, and a lifetime of regret and shame.

She unlocks her door. He steps inside, pocketing his camera as she takes his hand.

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3 thoughts on “Red Lights.

  1. Pingback: Red Light – One Possible Reflection

  2. markrenney2 says:

    There is an empathy and sadness running through this piece I find very affecting and I like the way it ends because, of course, it never does.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks Mark. I was in Amsterdam a few weeks ago with some work colleagues. The youngest of us “disappeared”. The older men looked in at the girls with a mournful look that sang of a lost youth.

      I like to think I’m still some way between the two … for a while yet.

      Liked by 2 people

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