She stood before him, naked on the train. Beneath her layers of clothes, her straps and zips, the hooks and eyes, her hat, her coat and the scarf around her throat, she was brazenly nude.
The flesh of a generous hip revealed itself, barely held behind thin fabric as she performed her burlesque. She shifted her weight from one boot clad foot to another as the train swayed round a curve less voluptuous than hers.
Embarrassed for her exposure he almost looked away from her bra-cupped bare breasts. From revealed thighs covered by no more than a dress or so. From the most intimate down of her sex exposed to any eye that saw through linen, lace and hosiery.
But he would not desert her. He did not avert his manly gaze as they pulled into the station. Not when she stepped, naked, from the train. Nor as she strode, stripped of all but clothing, along the busy platform.
Not until she became another fully dressed woman, like his wife, his mother, his daughter, did he look away.