I’m not an exhibitionist. I’ve never been to a nude beach or nudist colony. But my place has always been clothing-optional. Especially through miserable Chicago summers, the idea of having anything on inside feels absurd.

Now that K spends time here, this way of being means something else too, but mostly, it’s still just a matter of comfort.

The first time she came over she got worried about the street-facing windows. They are below sidewalk level, and, I assured her, during daytime, the light reflects off them such that we see out but can’t be gawked at.

One night, while waiting on the sidewalk for her car, she looked back at the house and pointed at how clearly the armchair inside was illuminated by the lamp. But we’re never naked in the front room at night, I answered.

Twenty five years ago, I worked at a restaurant with a tall, mean brunette. She and her boyfriend/husband had a band called Sin Ropas. My dead friend Rachel did their first CD cover. She worked at the restaurant too. I’m listening to that CD as I write this. Well, not the CD—I don’t own a copy, never did—but its virtual equivalent. The music’s not doing much for me. Certainly doesn’t give me the feeling of being unclothed.

Alone, or otherwise.

Here’s an article about a different restaurant. Clothing not optional.