It was many years ago now that a particular relationship ended for me. It hadn’t lasted long, but long enough that she’d stayed the night on a few occasions. Sometimes she’d leave a piece of clothing behind, and I’d put it in with my laundry and set it aside for her so she’d have something clean to change into for the next time she stayed over unexpectedly. So naturally, when we broke up, she came over to pick up her things on her way to work.
I do remember that it was a Wednesday, because one of my dearest friends and I used to spend every Wednesday together. I was grateful for the company, because I knew my ex was planning to come over that day and I needed a friendly distraction from the awkwardness. The anticipation was uncomfortable, but it was readily dulled with whatever Anime series we were plowing through at the time.
In my hope to make the handoff as rapid as possible I’d bundled the few items – a t-shirt, one or two pairs of socks, one pair of underwear – into a single wrapped object, and tucked it so nothing would come loose. There was a knock at the door, a quick “Hey there, here ya go,” and she was gone in less time than it takes to deliver a pizza. It was in the awkward stage of more than anything wanting her to stay, and more than anything needing her to leave.
Brief as the exchange was, I was still reeling when my phone rang ten minutes later. Caller ID told me it was her, and I immediately started planning my responses to the things I’d hoped she’d say. Probably it was something she couldn’t say while my friend could overhear. Something about how she missed me, that giving these things back seemed too final and maybe she didn’t want it to be over after all. Maybe she wanted to plan to meet for lunch, or dinner, or to hang out after work because a clean break was just too much to handle at once. Lost in my hopes of what she might say, I squeaked out a weak, “Hello,” wholly unprepared and flattened by what she did say.
“These are not my panties.”
Not, “I want you back.” Not, “Thanks for my stuff.” Not even, “Hello,” or even a more casual, “Hey there.” These are not my panties.
I forgot how to breathe. I didn’t understand how this could be possible. I had certainly entertained no other company who had removed her underwear in my apartment; there was simply no one else they could have belonged to.
“Whuh…what?” I managed.
“These panties. Are not mine.”
She had a history of fucking with me. Was she fucking with me? Was this a prank to throw me off guard? I realized I hadn’t spoken. My stunned silence was precisely how I would have responded had I been horribly, horribly guilty. I needed to say something, and now.
“Yuh . . . yeah they are.”
“No. They’re not.” I’ve never heard such calm intensity in a voice before. It could have sliced raw meat.
Whatever conversation followed lives in a blur of confused near apologies mixed with utter bafflement. She had to get off the phone and start work, so she hung up before I could get anywhere near a conclusion as to what had happened.
Over the next couple of hours I finally realized what must have been the case. This apartment was the first place I’d lived that had a community laundry area. I was in the habit of checking the washer and dryer to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind, but I had always taken it for granted the person before me had done the same. I ultimately had the conversation with her that explained my theory, but it was absolutely one of those times in life where one is totally innocent and looks horrendously guilty.
I’ve no idea whether she finally believed me, or simply pretended to and moved on. We’re still friendly to this day, and she’s never thrown that occasion back in my face, so it doesn’t affect me either way.
Except now I always remember to check the washer and dryer before just as carefully as after.
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