The confirmation email had been sitting in Jazzy's inbox for two weeks: Boudoir Session, today, 11:00, Studio Marlowe. She had booked it on a Tuesday night after a glass of wine and a very honest look in the mirror. By Wednesday she regretted it. By Thursday she was excited. Last night she tried on every lingerie set she owned, twice.

Now the November wind bit at her cheeks as she marched through the city in jeans, her warm coat, and a wool beanie pulled over her magenta hair. In her hand swung a huge sports bag. Inside: her very best lingerie, three pairs of stockings (backups, because she'd once laddered a pair at her own birthday), lip color, and a bottle of courage disguised as prosecco.

Orange leaves swirled around her boots. A man on the corner eyed the bag.

"Gym?" he asked.

"Something like that," Jazzy said. "Very specialized training."

She laughed all the way down the block, her breath puffing white in the cold air. Her phone buzzed. Her best friend: Are you nervous??

Terrified, she typed. Also excited. Mostly terrified.

She stopped at a shop window and caught her reflection: the beanie, the flushed cheeks, the grin she couldn't wipe off. Forty years old, she thought. Mortgage. Cat. And about to take photos I'll never show my mother.

She hoisted the bag higher on her shoulder. "Let's do this, Jazzy."

Three blocks later, a small brass sign read Studio Marlowe, 2nd floor. She took a deep breath and rang the bell.