“Darling,” I call to him sweetly, fresh from a late night shower and drying myself while hiding a bit behind the slightly open door of the master bathroom, “Fetch me my robe, please. It’s on the bed.”
“Robe?” he says with a raised eyebrow that I can hear — for he knows well after all these years that I prefer peignoirs. But he dutifully strides to do my bidding.
Returning with the desired object of my directions and affections, he proffers it to me — unable to resist a mocking, “Here’s your peignoir, miss.”
“Well, darling, I can hardly call it a ‘peignoir’ when it matches absolutely nothing,” I sweetly taunt as a slide my slightly damp arms into the frothy chiffon sleeves.
He still doesn’t quite understand… Or so it seems from his silence. I use my toe to further nudge the bathroom door open and allow him to watch as I deftly, but daintily, secure the pair of pearlized buttons that close the garment over my naked body. …Although “close” is a funny word, for even though secured, the buttons only hold the neckline closed. The rest of the fabric drapes loosely hiding my form behind the gauze of hazy pale blue chiffon — except for an ample slice in the front where nothing is secured or obscured.
“See? It doesn’t match–” I begin to explain my teasing bit of humor.
“Oh, I understand–” he replies.
“But I ever since I spotted this beauty, I just had to see what that neckline would look like, scooped yet standing up around my shoulders and decolletage…”
“Lovely indeed,” he said as slowly as his eyes drank me in.
Apparently he understood all along; he was just slack-jawed in awe and unable to speak.
That’s OK; what followed next needed no words anyway.