I mourned for the women in the windows. They sat on stools or stood in heels, presenting their bodies for examination and comparison and, ultimately, for purchase. I wondered if they were relieved to get someone they were mildly attracted to, someone who respected the merchandise. I wondered if they hummed the tune to "Roxanne" and fantasized that Sting was singing directly to them, or that some day they too could put away their make up, turn off the red light, and be treated like a person instead of a go-cart. I wondered if they perceived all men as johns and if any of them had ever experienced a healthy, symbiotic relationship, platonic or otherwise, with any man in their lives. I realized that though I believed it was their human right to do with their bodies what they chose, I found their choice -- and what must have led up to such a decision -- to be sad. As David and I rounded the corner that led us away from the red lights, I tried to imagine that girl returning home after work, as the sun was rising. In my mind's eye, I saw her taking off her clothes one last time, running a bath, ingesting some pills or maybe a bottle of wine, and doing her best to forget the details of the evening's invasions.