The Robe by Martha Rhodes After his shower he reaches for her robe, not the sexless terry but the white satin down to the floor. And she imagines softness and curves on him as he walks around the kitchen, drinks his coffee, bends to pet the cat, reaches for more sugar, bends again, wiping what he's spilled from her foot. How will she love him like this, should she pull him by the sash to bed or bare his shoulders, oil him first then slowly rub him dry with her palms? Where are the breasts and wide hips she thought she saw? What do they want each other to want — both of them standing here shy? "The Robe" reprinted from At the Gates by Martha Rhodes, by permission of Provincetown Arts Press.