Today she’d dreamed his memory of her padding to the shower one night. His eyes had been glued to the ribbon swaying down from the waist of her Strumpet & Pink thong. Swaying back and forth. He liked her elaborate lingerie, liked that he alone knew what was beneath her clothing. Back and forth went the ribbon. He growled so low she didn’t hear him. She has an arse men should write sonnets to. . . .
