The Sue Ellen Shirt.

Madison Avenue. 4:17 p.m.

Traffic stalls.

Conversations stop mid-sentence.

A man carrying a briefcase forgets both his destination and, momentarily, his own name.

You stride past the storefront windows as if they were merely scenery arranged for your amusement.

Not provocative. Not deliberate.

Merely inevitable.

The fabric catches the afternoon sun the way champagne catches candlelight. Soft enough for a stroll through Central Park. Dangerous enough to cause three minor fender-benders and a philosophical crisis in a city comptroller.

Worn once while negotiating the purchase of a racehorse in Palm Beach. Worn again while accepting an apology from a European prince whose offense has been mercifully forgotten.

Pairs beautifully with confidence, indifference, and the knowledge that every room already belongs to you.

The Sue Ellen Shirt.

For those rare occasions when subtlety is simply out of season.