I dangle it by one strap and smile to myself, imagining how Vitaly will react the first time he sees it.
Will he finger the little bows first?
Or will his thumb go straight to my nipple?
Will it be in his bedroom?
Or at the bakery.
Flour still on his hands.
Leaving little white traces on the pink.
I glance at the matching panties.
Adorable bows on the hip straps.
A man like Vitaly would tear those delicate things.
Rip them right off.
Must have.
I pick those up too.
Matching is important.
I’m not a basic bitch who wears silk up top and cotton below.
A prickle races over me.
Not the good, Vitaly’s going to whisper shit in Russian that I don’t understand but speaks directly to my ovaries, kind.
Not the kind I like, where a gaze heats the back of my thighs or curls around my waist like invisible rope.
This one’s… sharp. Icy.
A needle instead of a caress.
I freeze.
Lashes still lowered.
Fingers still brushing lace.
The store hums around me.
Overhead music. A child whining two aisles over. The rustle of hangers.
But beneath it?
Silence. Focus.
Someone watching.
And I wait.
One beat. Two.
