Wanna come home with me?

“What are you doing?” “I could do it like this.” I tug on the front of her shirt. “No, you can’t see it!” Of course I can, what’s she talking about. “It’s beige.” Oh. She unhooks it and pulls it out the sleeve of her shirt. “I was wearing a white shirt so I wore beige.” I don’t get it. What’s the point of wearing a bra if you don’t want people to see it? And what’s the point of having nipples if you don’t want people to see them? The first shopping we ever did together was when I took her out to buy some bras that weren’t beige. Or white either. She’s not even supposed to own beige bras. Much less wear them. But I let her. I must love her.

Now she’s braless under her white girly t-shirt. A picture of Beck on her chest. “Now I have to play Beck. And dance.” Fair enough. She spins up her Beck station on Pandora. And dances. I smile and watch. Wishing, as I have before, that I had a video camera in my tooth. And I dance with her. She’s got the sexy moves. I’ve got . . . I don’t know. We look at each other. Her eyes smolder in my direction. She sexies. We move closer. Looking. Anticipating. Pulling together. Her leg against my crotch. My hand on her ass. “Wanna come home with me?” “Sure.”