Only I can see you.

There her Portuguese lover stopped, setting down the book and pulling her feet onto his lap, massaging, kneading, thumbs pressed into her soles. She was wearing black silk stockings with black seams up the backs of her legs—Cuban heel, thigh high, lace top. She had put them on after her shower, after the kitchen was clean and the tea house was closed. Rolling the left stocking up her leg, she wondered why she hadn’t heard from him in so long. Rolling up the right, she wondered why the sudden invitation to see her now, on Christmas Eve of all nights. Was he just lonely? She remembered what Nell had suggested so long ago, Maybe you could wear something. Or not wear something. At Beaman & Sons, she ignored Beaman’s teenaged sons as they stole not-so-subtle glances at her legs while packing the back of her van with stacks of crates. When they were done, she drove to her Portueguese lover’s house and shivered at the sight of his lit windows. She parked, knocked, knocked again.