Black panties and tank top

As I sulked to my room I came across Jeremy, who stood outside Mom's room with an obnoxious smirk on his face.

"She's trying the Korean 'respect signal'" Jeremy sniggered.

I just shrugged back at him. "Whatever."

"What do you reckon she's gonna wear for me?" Jeremy asked, excitedly.

As if by some horrible stroke of misfortune, the answer presented itself to us without a moments notice. Mom stepped out of the room, her attire simple but intimate. She wore a fitted black camisole with thin spaghetti straps the fabric clinging obscenely to her torso, outlining the shape of her chest and waist. Below, she wore matching black underwear with a clean, minimal cut. The waistband sat low on her hips, exposing her lower abdomen and emphasizing the curve from waist to hip. It was clear that Mom's clothes were designed to contour rather than conceal.

Behind her, the mirror completed the picture. It offered what the front could not: the curve of her back, the fullness of her hips, the quiet emphasis of flesh revealed by the cut of her clothing. The reflection made it impossible to look only once. It doubled the view, encouraged comparison, invited lingering. Front and back, offered together, as though her body were a complete display rather than a private form.