Arthur looked at the garment. It was missing a rhinestone. And a tag. And there was a distinct smudge of self-tanner on the left cup that suggested it hadn't just snapped; it had survived a battle.
"I need," Arthur boomed, rattling the crystal chandelier, "something for my wife. It’s our thirtieth. Something... delicate." The Lingerie Salesman S Worst Nightmare
"I have the credit card statement."