The fabric slid slowly, the strap looping down her arm like a sigh, until the neckline gaped, exposing the curve of her shoulder and the faint, silvery lines of age. She didn’t startle, didn’t reach to pull it back. Just sat there, her tea cooling in front of her, as if the dress had a mind of its own.
He’d seen younger women do this—playful, deliberate, a bid for attention. But with her, it was different. There was no coquetry, no self-consciousness. It was a stripping away, not of modesty, but of pretense. The slip of the dress said this is how time touches us, these marks are not flaws, I am not afraid to be seen as I am.
Her fingers finally moved, but not to fix the strap. She traced the edge of the neckline, her nail grazing the skin, and met his gaze. “Youth is for hiding,” she said, her voice low, “old age is for letting the world look.” He thought of all the years she’d spent buttoned up, proper, tending to others—now, letting the dress fall was a kind of freedom.
When she stood, the strap stayed where it was, a deliberate choice, as she poured herself more tea. “Beautiful,” he said, and she laughed, a rich, warm sound. “Not beautiful,” she corrected, “honest.” Some nudity is for desire. This was for truth—unvarnished, unapologetic, as natural as the slip of a dress.