Ivy stood in her underwear, contemplating the three outfits laid out carefully on the bed. She slipped her hand into the back of her panties and slowly scratched her right cheek. She sighed, then removed her hand and adjusted her bra.
Delmar watched her quietly from the doorway.
“So,” he said. “Tough decision?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. I just don’t know what I feel like today.” Ivy reached down to the bed and plucked at the lace collar of a white blouse.
“Does it really make a lot of difference?”
“Sure,” she said. “Sure it does.”
Delmar understood. Yes, it makes a lot of difference. She runs around at home with a bare browless face and dirty underwear, but for David she paints and primps all morning then slides scandalously into the finest threads she can buy. Delmar understood now, and Delmar spoke.
“Does David like to watch you?”
Ivy looked back at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you like when David checks out your buns in those rayon dresses?”
Ivy glared at him.
“He probably sits at his desk all day and wonders how he can maneuver his way into the boss’s britches.” Delmar was proud of his own sense of irony.
Ivy turned back to the bed and leaned over, provocatively twisting her rear into a pretty little pose for her jealous husband.
“What makes you think,” she laughed, “that David has to maneuver?”