I waited for you in the restaurant; sure, I was early, but you were also late. I wore a navy blue dress and thigh-high brown boots. Dinner was awkward. I was shy, you seemed nervous. We chatted, getting to know each other. The details weren’t very significant—we talked about work and school and the restaurant. I barely remember them now, which does make me somewhat sad.
We drove to the hotel and stood around somewhat awkwardly again. Finally, we agreed it was time for me to change. I disappeared into the bathroom and quickly slipped into a lacy black bra, pink lacy underwear, and my skintight, black dress (the one that’s too short and too low-cut for me to wear in public—if it were one or the other, I could get away with it). I looked in the mirror, fluffed my hair a little, adjusted my bra so my breasts were just starting to pop out of the v in the otherwise round neckline of my dress. I stepped into my nude heels, took a breath, and opened the bathroom door. I left my hand on the door frame and took a step out, leaning my torso ahead of my legs. I shyly stepped the rest of the way into the room. You turned and stared at me while I stood, one leg extended slightly behind me, toes against the floor, heel swaying in the air. My hand is still on the door, the other hanging by my side.