A sun-drenched, abandoned mid-century busy modern atrium with shattered skylights and overgrown ferns. A voluptuous white-blonde housewife, perhaps in her late 30s wears a crisp, tailored white silk blouse that is slightly unbuttoned at the top and tucked into a high-waisted wrap-around skirt. The fabric is thin and sheer in the sunlight. She stands on a mossy stone bench, one hand gripping the lapel of her blouse while the other pulls the fabric down and aside, fully exposing one breast—ripe, heavy, with a slightly sagging, mature curve and a prominent, dusky areola. Her other hand rests on her hip, fingers digging into the wrap fabric of her skirt, and sliding her hand inside the top of her tiny cream satin and lace panties. Her expression is one of defiant, quiet ecstasy, eyes closed, head tilted back toward the light, as if she is basking in the sun on her skin rather than just displaying herself. The scene is still, silent, and charged with a strange, private intimacy in this public, decaying space. People just going about their business in the background.