Page 146 - In Five Years

with my sexuality—which Bella, casually——too casually—has accused me of
on more than one occasion.
The shop is filled with pretty, lacy things. Tiny bras with bows and matching
underwear. Frilly negligees with rosettes on the hem. Silk robes.

I choose a black lace camisole and boy shorts, decidedly different from
anything I own, but still me. I pay without trying them on, and then make my

way over to Haru. I call in our order on the way. No sense in waiting.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I hear David’s key latch in the door and I’m
tempted to run back into the bedroom and hide, but it’s too late now. The
apartment is littered with candles and the low stylings of Barry Manilow. It’s like

a cliché sex comedy from the nineties.
David walks in and drops his keys on the table, sets his bag down on the
counter. It’s not until he reaches to take off his shoes that he notices his

surroundings. And then me.
“Woah.”
“Welcome home,” I say. I’m wearing the black lingerie with a black silk robe,

something I got as a gift on a bachelorette weekend eons ago. I go to David. I
hand him one end of the belt. “Pull,” I say, like I’m someone else.
He does, and the thing comes apart, falling to the floor in a puddle.

“This is for me?” he asks, his index finger stretched out to touch the strap of
my camisole top.
“It would be weird if it weren’t,” I say.

“Right,” he says, low. “Yeah.” He fingers the strap, edging it down over my
shoulder. From an open window a breeze saunters in, dancing the candles. “I like
this,” he says.

“I’m glad,” I say. I take his glasses off. I set them down on the couch. And
then I start to unbutton his shirt. It’s white. Hugo Boss. I bought it for him for
Hanukkah two years ago along with a pink one and a blue-striped one. He never

wears the blue one. It was my favorite.
“You look really sexy,” he says. “You never dress like this.”
“They don’t allow this in the office, even on Friday,” I tell him.

“You know what I mean.”