“I have your underwear,” read the text.
I didn’t recognize the number. “Who is this and why?” I didn’t recall leaving my underwear anywhere.
“You know who this is,” was the response.
“Actually, I don’t. But I hope all that works out for you.” I wasn’t in the mood to have them back if, indeed, they had been stolen by this confessional thief. Who texts such a thing? And who deletes the number of a potential thief?
“I love them. I’m not giving the back.”
Further proof that I didn’t need them back no matter how much they cost. I could buy some more, you know, in three months or so after I paid for everything else in my life. Lacy La Perla doesn’t run cheap, and it was safe to assume that if my undies were in someone else’s clutches, I must have broken out the good stuff.
After a banter that went back and forth for about 20 minutes, I realized it was A. Oh, A.
A is a certain fella who’s a chef on the west side; completely not my type but he’s well over six foot, has blazing blue eyes and considering his tattoos, my parents would hate him. Yes, I’m still living on what little steam from being 18 that remains in my life.
A and I had a date not too long ago, and although it didn’t go far physically, my underwear was removed. When it comes to La Perla, I usually keep a staunch and almost religious tab on the situation, but when I saw him put them in his pocket, I thought they were more the safe.
When the night came to an end, I asked him from my underwear. He took them out of his pocket so he could twist the wetness out of them, not entirely me from me, but the sidewalk on which they had fallen. I rolled my eyes as he tried to claim the moisture was all from me wanting him, while I tried to point out all the reasons why they were not.
The night came to an end, we agreed to call each other, or rather text each other, as people do in this day and age, but neither of us followed up on it. I was content to let him go with the knowledge that our paths would cross again someday and maybe we could hook up under those circumstances. As he walked away, I had forgotten about the underwear until his creepy text.
I told him I wanted them back. He refused to drop them by my place. So I told him I’d come pick them up, but he refused to tell me the hours he was working. What it came down to was that he had a trophy of sorts, and they were gone. I pictured his apartment covered in women’s underwear, each one colorful and lacy, hanging from the rafters of whatever cavern he called home.
That was two weeks ago. I haven’t heard from him since, so obviously, I’m still sans one pair of lacy La Perla underwear. I am not a happy camper. He should have stolen a t-shirt, if he needed a piece of me to take home.