“Paper covers rock, I win. My turn to wear.”
I browse among tunics, bodice dresses, and poet shirts; our wardrobe overflows with snow white, diaphanous clothing.
Knowing smiles and lingering glances follow my white-clad form around the house all morning. In the garden. In the parlor. Delightful tension builds with each hour. Shivers of anticipation punctuate lunchtime.
Finally, mid-afternoon in the kitchen, a sudden and urgent embrace. The familiar sound of ripping fabric unleashes our bridled smoldering into conflagration. Another garment lies sacrificed on the altar of our passion.
We both win, really. Every time.
But our clothing bills are atrocious.