The War of the Panties

We argued about the panties. A scalding, vicious little engagement in the crosshairs of the Crossgates Mall. It had been simmering for some time by the time we got there, though when we got there we were happy. We shopped for jewelry armoires at J.C. Penny's. I even skipped overtime to be there, and it seemed a wise choice. At first.

It was I who remembered that we hadn't remembered them, so we drove back to where we'd started so happily just an hour before, went into the very same entrance, but everything looks different when you're hunting for panties, especially freebies. It was the wrong entrance, but that's okay. It won't hurt. We'll just take our time and stroll till we get there, arm in arm; foreplay. No rush, they're giving them away, for god's sake! But I tried one too many times to steer her my way- NO! She wriggles out from under my arm, and back to the car we go, for a closer, more appropriate entrance. But by now it was busy, and there was a misunderstanding. I'll let you out here, by the doors, and you meet me down there. Or so I thought. Parking far down the row I did what I always do when she gets mad at me while I wait for her panties: I read. It was a book about the war.

Twenty minutes went by. Can panties take so long? Surely not. Maybe she can't find me. Maybe she's wandering the aisles of cars even now, panties dangling from her hands, searching fruitlessly for me. I know- I'll give her a better target. I'll get out of the car and read on the back bumper, so she can see me. But I look up and there she stands, one hundred yards away, alone and forlorn. She hasn't moved. She has no panties, but I can see that she's packing an indelicate load of fierce anger, all of it directed at me. You see, I'd remembered the forgotten panties the first time, but forgot that I needed to be there with her to claim the prizes, to hand in that second postcard, which is silly, because surely they must know I won't be wearing them. It's beginning to look like I'll never see them again, either, these hastily grabbed undergarments. She tries to hand one to me as we queue, but I refuse with all the force I can muster from my suddenly queasy stomach: "I'm not holding them!" I do wait in line, however, the only man there but for the disinterested youth who processes our transaction. I can't help but wonder: does he wonder what she'll look like in them? I would.

We skulk back to the car in great silence. She takes the elevator, I take the stairs. I arrive before her and wait patiently, hoping that when the doors open she'll be gone, or at least changed. No luck. One would think that free panties would buy an awful lot of good will, but no. Not today. We argue rabidly in the car as I careen across the parking lot, each of us unloading our pent up hostility until finally I scream, and she rubs her forehead. "Take me home. I have a headache." That ends the conversation, such as it is. She probably puts the panties in the drawer.

We're going out with friends tonight. Maybe she'll put them on?

Maybe. But I damn sure won't ever find out...