Mr. Bickle, the milkman, had been delivering milk to Emma for over twenty years. On her sixtieth birthday, Emma decided to get drunk, and to lay her panties out on the old metal milk bin.
Later that morning, when Mr. Bickle found them, they were still on the milk bin, and they were still being worn by Emma.
"Mornin' Mr. Bickle," she said. "And it is such a fine mornin' . . . or don't you think so, Mr. Bickle?"
"Sure 'tis, Emma."
"Sure 'tis, Emma, he says. You are a poet, Mr. Bickle. Anyone ever tell you that?"
"I need to get those empties, Emma, could you . . ."
"Move, Mr. Bickle. Is that what you're trying to say? Move? Now that is a fairly suggestive word, is it not, Mr. Bickle? Are you suggesting anything to poor old Emma?
"No, Emma. I . . ."
"Hmmm. Could've sworn you was. I'll move if you'll have a drink. It is my birthday, and I am in need of a little company. Not that I'm suggesting anything. I only . . . it's been a long time since someone took the time to make me happy, Mr. Bickle. How long's it been for you? How you getting on since your wife passed? Five years now, ain't it?
"I've always had a fondness for you, Mr. Bickle. I . . . "
Emma stood up suddenly, and retreated into the house without a word.
Mr. Bickle picked up the two quarts of milk and did likewise.