Lingerie, or Underwear

A couple drove on a summer afternoon, or evening time. Let’s say his name is Andrew, hers Julie. So Andrew was driving the two of them, or Julie is driving her parents’ car to a department store. He looked at her cheek a second before the wind blew her hair over it, or it was the blasted AC she liked, like his mother. The couple was in a car. Let’s say it’s black, driving to a store.

When she pushed her hair behind her ear, he thought of her cheek. He kissed it before they got into the car because she wouldn’t give him her lips. “You taste like smoke,” she told him. Or maybe it was that he still smelled like strong spiced rum but smoke sounded better on her tongue.

The girl we are calling Julie in the couple hated all forms of smoke. This girl said it was bad for her singing voice. Her voice she used to get through college. He listened to her practice. Julie, the girl, always fake-coughed when they walked by cigarette smokers. The guy, who we are calling Andrew, gave sympathetic looks, or he looked away embarrassed.

Leaving the car and smoke outside, the couple walked through the Macy’s, or Kohl’s, or Sear’s. He fell a step behind, stopping for a second to hear the song playing. Andrew realized it was a different song than he thought but it only took a second to now be looking at her back as she continued on, or how quickly something ends.

Getting into the girl’s parents’ car, she said she needed underwear. “You can help me pick them out,” she said starting the car. Or he started the car and drove. One of them picked the music but the other seemed indifferent. 5 for $20 read the sign above the bin of underwear. Both seemed to smile, but for different reasons. Andrew, the boy, glanced around. She dove in.

She wanted his opinion, or settled for his because he was the only boy there who had seen her naked and knew the curves of her body. He knew what she liked. Andrew knew Julie, or Julie knew Andrew. But he squeezed all the hope out of this he could. He didn’t ask why they haven’t slept together in months. But he knew she wasn’t asking for his opinion, just a guy’s opinion. He said, “Thanks for thinking of me sexually.”

Someone drove back, after thongs were picked and paid for. Who paid – no one remembers exactly. There were no smokers but she coughed anyway and he pointed out no one was there. Maybe she could bare kissing on the lips if no smoke was around, maybe they could kiss if she continued pretending Andrew was him like when they picked the underwear.

In the car of some color, someone parked in the driveway. Someone said, “Maybe it isn’t working out.” Someone’s hands gripped the steering wheel so hard their knuckles turned white and the other studied the glove box handle until they knew every detail, every curve. Like he knew the moles on her back and she knew the scars on his hands. No more words were said before both got out of the car. One clearly got out first while the other lingered, touching the glove box handle.

Julie’s mother or father blew up the air mattress for the couple to sleep on or fuck on but only if she was feeling imaginative. What they did doesn’t matter because one said, “Let’s talk” and the other said, “Let’s enjoy tonight.” Her definition of “enjoy” was often different than his. Which one liked fucking and which liked making love is still a mystery, but one always closed their eyes.

The next morning, the couple drove the parents’ car again to the train station. They took turns picking the songs because they couldn’t agree. One picked new songs from school, the other picked songs of bands they saw in concert. The boy or girl couldn’t help but feel isolated. Julie, or the girl, kept checking her phone. Andrew saw her double check the new underwear was placed in her suitcase, the tags still attached, or unused so far.

At the station, one went north and one took the car back west. Who went where – doesn’t matter really. Who broke up with who the following day isn’t important. Just know she would call him months later from the hospital because she wouldn’t eat and played with razorblades. He answered shaking, a little baggie of his new habit and pen in hand. When they got together again, Julie and Andrew, her scars touched his ashed fingertips, they knew they couldn’t ever see each other again.

_Author’s Bio

Alexander Strickler has been writing down words in a purposeful way since his high school graduation.

He has written in many forms including fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry and prose poetry.
What he has sent us for this publication is one of his prose poems. His influences include Chuck Palahniuk, Vince Guerra and Shane McCrae.

Alexander is currently editor-in-chief of The Reflector and has been working with Shippensburg University’s undergraduate journal of the arts since he started college. He is an English secondary education major and will be student teaching this spring semester. _

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