[stylist] underwear

Thu Oct 27 13:47:20 UTC 2016

Chris,

Thanks for sharing. I always enjoy reading your material.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris Kuell
via stylist
Sent: Wednesday, October 26, 2016 4:56 PM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Cc: Chris Kuell <ckuell at comcast.net>
Subject: Re: [stylist] underwear

There has been a lot of chatting on the list, most of which I haven't read.
However, the 'underwear' subject line did grab my attention. And, I thought
I'd share a very short story I wrote several years ago.

Underwear

By Chris Kuell

The sharp crash downstairs vaulted me from shallow sleep into consciousness.
It was tough to determine exactly where the noise came from, but it was
definitely breaking glass. The clock showed 3:08 a.m. Meg was still sound
asleep on the other side of the bed; a gunshot couldn't wake her at this
time of night. A familiar creaking climbed through the quiet of the night
and I knew someone was in the kitchen. 

I rolled out of bed, dressed only in boxers, and went to investigate. The
door to the guest room at the end of the hall was open a few inches and Doug
snored like a badly tuned outboard motor. Lord only knows how Sara slept
through that.

Downstairs, I got a quick peek at Sara's behind as she swept something into
the dustpan. She was wearing plain white panties cut high on her hip. When
she heard me approaching, she stood to cover herself with her long tee
shirt.

"I broke a glass, I'm sorry," She said. Eyes red, she gave a quick wipe of
her face with one hand.

"That's no problem. Are you cut?"

"No, it broke into three pieces. I'm such a klutz. It's all cleaned up now."

Sara bent as gracefully as she could, dressed only in a tee shirt and
panties, and I enjoyed another flash of skin and cotton. Now, Sara is a
good-looking woman. Not a Cosmo girl, but somebody that still gets a lot of
attention at the beach. We've been close friends since we used to skip an
early childhood development class, whiling away the afternoon drinking cheap
pitchers at Astro's, contemplating all the problems of the world.  But I'm a
guy, and guys can't take too much visual pleasure without suffering
localized zones of intense gravity, pulling all the blood down out of the
brain. 

"Here, let me help you."  

I wet some paper towel and wiped the area to catch any tiny fragments. 

"So, what are you doing down here at this time? Trouble sleeping?"

"Yeah," she said, arms folded protectively over her chest. My blood
redistributed to my brain.

"I always have trouble sleeping when I'm traveling," I said. Sarah didn't
respond. "Can I get you a drink? Juice? A glass of milk? Scotch? "

"Got any tequila?" 

"Oh, you want the high-test." I went to the liquor cabinet and took down the
Cuervo. I poured us both a generous shot and we sat at the kitchen table.

"Do you mind shutting off the light? I'm feeling a little underdressed
here." 

"C'mon, you look great," I said. She gave me a look and I shut off the
light. 

Outside the kitchen window moonlight trickled in and illuminated her
silhouette. I watched her pick up her shot glass. I grabbed mine and made a
toast. "Nasdrovia."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Beats me. My grandfather used to say it. Must be Russian for kiss my ass or
something."

We clinked glasses and tossed our shots back. The liquor burned all the way
down my gullet. Sara sat trance-like, staring out the window into the night.
With a sigh she seemed to shrink a little in the chair.

"Can I have another?"

"Sure. No closing time here." I poured us both another shot, which scalded a
little less than the first.

"So, has the drive been long for you?" I asked. Sara and Doug were old
friends visiting us from St. Louis. Once a year they drove back east to
visit. We were all tight back in college, and we aren't family, so they
usually crashed with us for a few days.

"It's killing me. The quiet, its so... pervasive. There's nothing there."

"What do you mean?"

She put the empty glass to her lips and sucked out another few drops.

"I'm leaving him," she said. She rolled the glass gingerly in one hand.

"Who?" I asked. "Doug?" 

Maybe I wasn't thinking straight. Sara and Doug had been a couple for as
long as Meg and I had-nearly 15 years. We were in their wedding and they
were in ours. They were our kid's god-parents.

"Sara, I'm so sorry. Why?"

"He threw out my underwear."

"He threw out your underwear. so you're leaving him? Doesn't that seem a
little drastic? I mean, you must have more. In fact the ones you are wearing
look fabulous."

"They weren't just underwear, Steve. They were my favorite underwear. Our
favorite underwear." She blew a loose strand of hair away from her face. "I
got them when we went to Cozumel. Back then, I couldn't wear them ten
minutes before he was pulling them off again, raring to go."

The silence enveloped us. I struggled for something to say.

"Why did he throw them out?"

She stared into the bottom of her shot glass and reflected for a moment.
"Because they were old and faded and represented a me that he doesn't see
anymore." She wiped her cheek. "They just didn't fit anymore."

I found the Cuervo and poured us each another shot.

"Is there someone else?" I asked.

"No," she answered. "Well, yes, sort of, but no."

"Say again?"

"I've been with another guy off-and-on for the last few months, but he isn't
the reason. He is dumb as a stump and can screw like a jackrabbit-that's
all. But he helped open my eyes; made me feel wanted again. I haven't felt
wanted in years."

"Hell, that's not true, Sara. I wanted you just ten minutes ago. I wanted to
bend you over the table and."

"Stop it. pervert," she said. She didn't throw her shot glass at me, so I
figured I hadn't crossed the line yet.

"Do you have an exit strategy?" I asked.

"Not yet. I've only come to the decision on this trip. I've tried to talk
with him, a car ride can be a wonderful thing for marital communication, but
we're not on the same page. Not even in the same library."

"Well, you know you are always welcome here."

"Your wife might have something to say about that."

The blood returned to my brain and we sat in silence for another minute.

Sara stood up, "I've got to try to get some sleep." I put the tequila away
and set the shot glasses in the sink. She turned and stood in front of me in
the dark kitchen.  "You can't say anything to Doug. I haven't told him yet."

Doug and I were old friends, but I was always closer to Sara, chatting with
her on the phone once a month and exchanging e-mails on a regular basis.

"I'll keep it quiet. but I hope you will give this more thought."

She stepped close and put her arms around me.  An inch from my face she
said, "Thanks," then kissed me softly on the mouth. The tequila vapors
spilled into me and before I had another blood migration she stepped away
and went upstairs.

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