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It had been a few weeks since that brief but memorable conversation in the pub, and the memory of the older man’s quiet, assessing smile and the way his eyes had lingered on me still sat warm and persistent in the back of my mind. I found myself replaying fragments of it at odd moments, the low timber of his voice, the polite but unmistakable interest, the way he had held my gaze a second longer than necessary. I wondered, more than once, whether he had simply forgotten the exchange, or whether life, age, or caution had pulled him away. The thought nagged at me in the quiet evenings when the flat felt particularly still and the city noise outside seemed distant.

One late afternoon I was sat in my small flat after a long, steaming shower. The bathroom mirror was still fogged, the air heavy with the scent of my favourite body wash, something clean and faintly floral that clung to damp skin. I had slipped into a black negligee that clung to every curve while still slightly damp, and a matching thong that sat high on my hips, the thin straps digging softly into my flesh. I was half-heartedly cleaning my computer, wiping the screen with a soft cloth, when the phone rang. The sudden noise made me jump. I wiped my hands on a towel, picked it up, and answered with a casual “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was unmistakable.

“Hello,” I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my tone even as a small flutter started in my stomach. “I thought you must have forgotten me.”

“No, not at all, Lacy,” he replied, the warmth in his voice immediate and reassuring. “I can’t go out at the moment. I have a dog. She’s getting on in life, but every time I want to leave the house she howls. It’s fine during the day, my friend next door looks after her, but nights are another story. Believe me, I’ve wanted to arrange something with you for weeks. I’m sorry it’s taken this long.”

I smiled to myself, curling my legs underneath me on the sofa, the negligee riding up my thighs. “It’s fine.”

There was a short pause, then he continued, a little more carefully, as if testing the water. “There is another idea I’ve been thinking about. What if I cook us something nice and you come here to my house instead?”

My pulse gave a small, interested kick. The idea of going to his place rather than meeting in public felt more intimate, more deliberate. “When did you have in mind?”

“Tonight, if you’re free.”

I glanced around the quiet flat. No plans. Nothing waiting for me except another evening alone with the television or a book. The invitation hung in the air, full of possibility. “Yes. Great. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. What time and where?”

“Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Yes, shoot.”

I wrote the address down carefully on the back of an envelope, asking for the time as I did so, my handwriting a little less steady than usual.

“Seven-thirty to eight,” he said.

“I’ll see you then.”

When I hung up, the flat suddenly felt charged with a low, electric current of anticipation. I stood and walked through to the bedroom, the negligee whispering against my thighs with every step. I opened the wardrobe and began looking through my dresses with more purpose than usual. Most were too casual, or too formal, or simply not right for the mood I wanted. Then my fingers closed around a black thin wrap-around dress. I held it up against myself. It was short, three inches above the knee, and the fabric was soft, almost liquid, slightly sheer in the right light. Yes. This one.

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