Curved service.
: mf

One of the few times I muster enough courage to browse in women's wear.
Perhaps it's to indulge my senses by imagining how I might dress my wife if
given the chance. But, how would I dress her?
I need some answers. I step up to the sales counter. My breath quickens.
There, crouching on the floor is the attendant sorting a fallen shipment of
hosiery boxes. How many and of what colour were the boxes eludes me because
it is her position that sent adrenaline shooting through my body. She
crouches there, facing me.
Her blouse is undone to the third button. The V that, if she were standing,
would normally frame her neck and face, in her bent-over position invites me
to glance into more intimate places. My eyes step over the threshold. I can
see the full curve of each breast flowing down and gently outward until
captured by white lace cups. I take a snapshot in my mind and imagine the
warm, pillowy sensation in my hands were they her cups instead.
Her knees are clenched tightly. Her hosiery caresses her thighs and smooths
the contours that form when crouching. The knee-length, navy blue skirt is
pulled up to mid-thigh and shuns my intruding eyes. Those sumptuous thighs
fade into the shadow of the skirt. But, it is a skirt that buttons up the
center, and the last two buttons are undone! My heart throbs at my throat as
I await, nay, anticipate her next move.
She can barely keep her balance with knees clenched tightly and feet tucked
directly underneath. Is it her modesty that keeps her in that position? A
simple shift in weight and she would have to stand up to stop from falling,
or move one foot and hence one knee to regain her balance. Her next move is
almost over before it begins.
A box falls away from the neat stack beside her feet. She leans over to
retrieve it and places one knee on the floor to do this. The opaqueness of
her skirt has been penetrated. Light slithers up her inner thighs reflecting
the sheerness in her fine hosiery and teasing my eyes to keep searching. The
colour of her hose darkens and I know I must be close. The shadow I now
encounter no longer comes from her skirt. My heart skips. It's over. She
replaces the box, regains her footing and closes the door of my
anticipation.
At this point, she notices me. "May I help you?" she asks.
"Uh," I stutter trying to catch my breath. "No thanks. I've been served."