Oma places her hand on my knee and gives it a little push so that my thighs are pressed closely together, my right over my left. “Let your routine be your stockings. xxx sex I love myself. A “tease” you say? You know your place, Peter and you know it isn’t beside Oma, not now, not today, not here. He could not have agreed or sat more quickly. Do you?” I nod, my eyes closed, “yes, Oma, it is enough.”
She releases me, spell broken. It slides down over my forearms, down the insides of my toned upper arms, and down the swell of my breasts, where it’s hem deliciously lingers, trapped by my nipples. Across the street, men noisily unloading cases of beer, in front a seedy bar pause to watch me. I roll my shoulders slightly forward to release the tension on the spaghetti straps and reflexively unsnap my bra, slipping it from my shoulders. I know he can smell my lavender perfume and lotion. I work it in with my palms and fingertips. His voice is perfect, calm but having an impatient undertone as he is greeted. It is pandemonium but it is Oma’s attention which I crave. You could be one day. I resist the urge to acknowledge it, the slightest Oma glance confirms that I am right to ignore him, to let him search for me in the crowded room.
