From Four Deuces by Stuart Dybek in A Public Space.
“One Saturday I hear the opera station mixed up with the creepy sound of pigeons. Usually, Frank played it quiet cause he knew opera annoyed me. But it’s blaring. I walk to the porch and he’s standing by the windows looking out, waving his arms like he’s Pavarotti. Jumped like I’d caught him in the act. I look out the window to see what he’s singing at. Across the alley, where there used to be Pani Bozak’s chickens pecking at a dirt yard, there’s the Widow’s laundry hanging on a pulley clothesline from her back window. What sun shines back there’s shining through her flimsy black panties. It’s like Frederick’s of Hollywood: lacy slips, camisoles, D-cup bras, nylons—not panty hose—silk nylons like she was wearing when she sashayed into the Deuces, like women used to wear with garter belts. You see underclothes like that and know why they’re called unmentionables. Everything’s black but her bedsheets, these beautiful silk sheets that must of cost a fortune. With every breeze, her panties wave on the line like pennants over a used car lot.
I go, Enjoying the view?”