“if God wanted us to be naked, why did he invent sexy lingerie”

  • Red Parcel

    A plain manila envelope arrived on Tuesday no return address, just his name in block caps, the kind of handwriting that doesn’t apologize.Inside, folded once like a secret passed in church,a pair of red thong panties, unmistakably worn.Not new-store crisp.The elastic at the waist had given up its fight,the scarlet dye faded along the seams to bruised rose,a small threadbare patch at the crotch where time and someone else had rubbed insistently.He held them up to the kitchen light.They smelled faintly of skin, detergent long gone,and something warmer, older—jasmine body oil, maybe, or the ghost of summer sweat.No note. No explanation.Just the soft authoritative hush of nylon settling in his palm.He sat at the table for twenty minutesturning them over like an artifact.Were they a taunt? A confession?A cruel joke mailed from ten years ago?Or—worse—something tender,a woman somewhere deciding

    his hands should remember her shape again.He thought of putting them back in the envelope,of burning them in the backyard fire pit,of dropping them in the neighbor’s trash like contraband.Instead he carried them upstairs and laid them across the pillow on the empty side of the bed.That night he did not touch them. He only watched the red crescent glowin the dark like a dropped ember,quietly certain that whoever sent them

  • Pink on Porcelain


    She left before the coffee finished brewing,
    a quick thanks-for-the-couch wave through the screen door,
    heels already clicking toward the interview that mattered.
    The house went quiet the way rooms do
    after someone else’s perfume has drifted out.He padded barefoot to the bathroom to brush his teeth
    and there they were,
    crumpled pink cotton on the cold white tile,
    one leg-hole still looped around itself like it hadn’t quite decided to let go.Not hidden. Not folded.
    Just dropped, careless or deliberate,
    the way you leave something when you’re already halfway gone.He crouched.
    The fabric was still warm from her body,
    damp at the gusset in a small dark oval
    that carried the unmistakable musk of sleep,
    morning, nerves, the long drive yesterday,
    and whatever else had happened
    between the moment she slipped them off
    and the moment she stepped into the shower
    and stepped out again without them.He didn’t pick them up right away.
    He only stared, pulse loud in his ears,
    while the old betrayal bloomed fresh behind his ribs.Because these were hers
    not his ex’s, but close enough:
    same brand, same soft rose shade
    his ex used to wear when she wanted to be noticed,
    the ones she’d leave on the dresser like bait.
    And now here was the friend wearing them,
    sleeping two rooms away from the bed
    that still remembered his ex’s shape.He imagined her waking up,
    sliding them down her thighs in the half-dark,
    stepping out of them without looking back,
    knowing exactly where they would land.
    Imagined her standing under his showerhead,
    water running over skin he had no right to picture,
    then dressing again bare beneath the interview skirt
    leaving this small pink evidence
    like a signature.His fingers hovered.
    He could smell her on them now—
    clean sweat, faint citrus body wash,
    the private salt of arousal or simply being alive
    in a stranger’s house at dawn.He thought of pressing the cotton to his face,
    breathing her in until the scent drowned out memory.
    Thought of folding them into his pocket,
    carrying them through the day like contraband.
    Thought of texting his ex one line—
    “Your friend forgot something”—
    and attaching a photo that would burn through the screen.Instead he sat back against the tub,
    staring at the pink heap
    while the faucet dripped once, twice,
    and the room slowly filled
    with the low, ugly heat
    of wanting what was never offered
    and probably never meant.He still hasn’t moved them.
    They lie there like a dropped gauntlet,
    quietly daring him
    to decide
    whether this is accident,
    invitation,
    or simply the careless cruelty
    of women who know
    exactly what men will do
    with whatever they leave behind.