Was cleaning out my closet today and unearthed a black lace bodysuit buried at the bottom. I remember when I bought it, Jack's eyes went wide. Now? He probably wouldn't even glance at it. Sometimes I feel like an out-of-season garment, stuffed in a corner gathering dust. But this body in the mirror—these full breasts, this round ass, and the private place between my legs that still gets wet at a certain look or a suggestive line—they're not ready to concede defeat. I need someone to remember that a 48-year-old woman can still make a man ache with desire, can still wrinkle the sheets. Tonight, maybe it's time to have some fun.