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I enter the suite, but don't see you. I do see your shoes. My eyes follow in their direction and I see your blouse also on the floor. As I walk towards it I see your skirt at the balcony door. The door is half open. I go out on to the balcony expecting to find you showing your body to the world, but I am alone. There's a bottle of wine, so I pour a glass. I take a drink and hear the door open further. There you are, in a silky black robe. I offer you the other glass. As you reach for it, the robe comes open, revealing what's hidden beneath. My eyes fall on the sheer black stockings that run all the way up to your thighs, where they meet the lacy black garter belt that hugs your hips perfectly. Under that is a tiny matching thong, with a single bow that barely holds the split crotch together. It does nothing to hide the trimmed patch of hair underneath. The bra also matches, and while it does a spectacular job of lifting your full breasts up, it fails to cover them well. I can see the. Therese had called Madeleine and together they had gone to Marcel’s apartment, where they found him in bed, already cold to the touch. He’d apparently had a fatal heart attack while he slept. Madeleine had called me as soon as she found him, and I rushed to the apartment to handle things. Truthfully, I had been concerned about his health, for he hadn’t looked good in the previous weeks and months. He’d gained weight, almost to the point where he was obese, and his color wasn’t good. He had dismissed my concerns in his usual jovial, self-deprecating manner, but my worries remained. So while I was shocked at his death, I wasn’t surprised. Madeleine, of course, was useless, her grief all-encompassing, so it fell to me to deal with the authorities and make all of the arrangements. The church — the same one where Madeleine and I had been married four years earlier — was packed to overflowing with friends and well-wishers for Marcel’s funeral, and the procession to the cemetery that.
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