“You’re thinking about it all wrong,” he replied. “Lingerie isn’t clothing.”
She looked at him, confused. “What do you mean? If lingerie isn’t clothing, what is it?”
“Lingerie,” he smiled, “is an invitation.”
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The day has tumbled me around and deposited me back here, a little worse for the wear, meetings and spreadsheets and traffic leaving imperceptible marks on me, except maybe my suit looks a little wrinkled and maybe I look a little tired. But it’s good to be home. I trudge up the stairs, and unlock the door. Swing it open, enter. Turning into the living room, I pause at the sight before me.
I don’t know, honestly, if what you’re wearing counts as lingerie. It’s a red silk robe. Is that lingerie? Does it matter? The way it is sliding off one shoulder, and parted open in the front. The way you sit on the couch, your hands on your thighs, your lips parted in a small smile. There is no doubt what you are suggesting. And I am speechless.