She can’t tell if the chills are from the temperature or anticipation. She’s standing in her bath towel, looking at the outfit on her bed. She can’t remember the last time she wore something like this. Maybe once or twice with Paul, but mostly before they even began dating.
She looks at her phone one more time, hoping for another text from “Guy.” Nothing shows but the last message she received: “get on the orange rail heading north, board the third car from the front.” Just re-reading it is enough to give her butterflies.
The towel drops to the floor before she chickens out. She used to love the feel of lace on her skin, but of course years of dating and marriage molded her into craving comfort over style. Yet as the lace climbs her thigh, that old tingle returned. It only intensified as she donned the mini-skirt, professional enough where no one would say anything, yet hot enough where they would look. The perfect balance. Once the top and shoes were on, she was out the door before she could change her mind.