Mm-hm. Yeah, prob'ly. It's as if that's what they think, when they make lady clothes. About taking 'em off ladies.

[Her eyes are closed as she smooths that hand down the plane of her abdomen, slides each finger one by one over her stomach. Then she reaches up with both hands, loosens the scarf from her neck but doesn't remove it. She picks the phone up again instead and almost purrs into it--cliche and tawdry, but that's the low, pleased hum of her voice right now.]

But a lady's gonna save that for last. What do you want to take off me next, Mr. Strider? The scarf? Or...

[She draws one knee up slowly so the nylon pantyhose whispers against itself.]

...the rest?