Even after that first blow to his pride, Kafka didn't quit.
Every time Olivia emerged from the changing room in another piece of lingerie, lace, silk, sheer panels, things that could make a saint swallow hard, he was ready.
It didn't matter that she wasn't asking for his opinion. She wasn't showing off for him. She was clearly just parading out to make some point he didn't yet understand.
But if she thought he was going to sit there and keep quiet, she didn't know who she was dealing with.
"Ohhh, look at you, no, no, look at you, Olive."
He'd say with that same shameless flourish as the first time, giving dramatic hand motions like he was a host on some fashion show.
"If the moon had curves, they'd look like this. You're not wearing lingerie, you're wearing weaponry, and I'm the one getting hit."
"Those straps?" He'd go on for another set. "Perfectly balanced between elegance and the dangerous suggestion of what happens when they come off—"
