Beneath my fingertips, that flawless silk lace and its accompanying solid fabric. Sex He is drinking in a vision of me. He wants me, needs to see me, breathe me in, ravish me and I want him to want this, to need this as well. One by one, I button Oma’s dress, my dress, pulling it up a little to reach the last two. It is a lingering embrace, a lovely, lingering embrace. I don’t mind. I work it in with my palms and fingertips. She retrieved it, carefully mended and starched its collar, and fitted it to me like lovely Lucy dresses up her dolls. Oh, that momentary delight! “How tight, Oma?”
She stands, crossing the short space to me atop her heels like a trapeze artist. I gather the cotton together with the cloth belt, buckling it into its delicate silver. I could dance a waltz in such heels and the swish of my skirt with every step is like watching feathered clouds race across a crystal blue sky. Oma’s pleased and my confidence and strength rebound, doubled. I know he can smell my lavender perfume and lotion. I do not need to see her to know this. My bait?
