In the porcelain room
where steam still lingers,
he enters, locks the world behind him.
There they hang, bikini panties,
thin as breath on the tub’s wet lip,
cotton once snow, now softly grayed
by the secret press of her days.  The crotch has surrendered its innocence:
a shallow, velvet hollow molded perfectly,
the exact twin of her vulva’s quiet architecture,
the inner lips cast in soft relief,
parting faintly down the center where fabric settled deepest,
thinning to near-translucence along that intimate seam,
then rising forward, converging to cradle
and half-veil the small hooded pearl
of her clitoris, its glans a subtle raised ridge
preserved like a thumbprint in warm wax
beneath the delicate fold of prepuce.  The whole shape ergonomic,
a living negative cast by years of riding bicycle seats,
tight jeans, slow morning stretches,
the quiet friction of her walking through the world.
Fabric thinned to silk at the very core,
edges faintly frayed where her thighs kissed it raw.  His pulse stutters.
Fingers tremble, then claim.
He presses the warm ghost of her against himself,
inhales the faint musk of her skin and soap and something sweeter,
then wraps that perfect imprint around his ache
and moves,slow at first, then desperate
riding the very contour she left behind.  A low groan swallowed by running water.
Release comes sharp, hot, forbidden,
spilling into the cradle her body shaped.
He catches every drop like a thief.
Wipes, folds, smooths.
Hangs them exactly as found—
one leg loop crooked just so over the chrome,
crotch facing the wall,
no wrinkle out of place.  The toilet sighs, fills, roars its white noise.
Door opens. She is already there to claim what she had forgotten,
leaning against the opposite wall,
arms folded, smile half-hidden.  As he passes, she slips past him,
snatches the panties down,
presses them to her cheek for one heartbeat.
Later, alone,
she will unfold them,
trace the faint new dampness at the center,
lift them to the light,
and forever wonder—
did he
or didn’t he ?