Pairs

A new pair of underwear arrives in the mail on the 14th of every month. The subscription service delivers on their promise, and the hip-huggers, thongs, and French-cut briefs are as beautiful as they are comfortable. This month’s pair is very good. Bikini cut, pale blue, a generous reveal of the lower cheek. They’re sexy in the way that morning light on a down comforter is sexy, when two people rock themselves awake against each other, the sweet obscenity of a day post-coitus, pre-anything else. She pulls them on and runs her hands over her ass to test if they are softer than her skin—close call. 

The subscription was a gift, back when she and the Ex could both enjoy it. A year since the breakup and she hasn’t gone a single month without a black box appearing on her doorstep, freckled with smooches and a St. Valentine’s logo embossed in labial pink. The account and billing are still in the Ex’s name. The Ex has never contacted her to ask for thanks or if March’s pair was better than April’s. The subscription automatically renews, and it’s possible the Ex simply forgot about the recurring charge, but who else could have updated the delivery address? 

She considers calling the Ex. She doesn’t. Instead, she lies in front of her mirror and imagines calling the Ex. “Thank you,” she says. She doesn’t want anything specifically from them anymore, but the offering still feels good. The Ex wants to give. She wants to take. No one is promising to keep. She rubs at herself until guilt and friction make her ecstatic. After, she slips the satiny thing off and tucks it back inside the tissue paper. In the morning, she puts the blue bikini briefs into an oversized envelope and mails them to their old apartment—the only address she has for the Ex. It’s what she’s done every month, with every pair, for the past year.   

The new tenants in Apartment 5D, a family of three, can’t figure out where the panties are coming from. A pair of musky, wrinkled underwear arrives by mail on the 16th or 17th of every month in an oversized envelope with no return address. The parents accuse their teenage son of soliciting the deliveries online. There was a prior incident—X-rated charges on the credit card they gave him for emergencies. They cancel the card on a hunch. The deliveries don’t stop. 

The parents make a show of opening and throwing away the packages in front of him. He tries to reason with them. He points out the postmark of the USPS branch nearby. They ask if they should feel better that he buys locally. When the son brings home a girlfriend, his mother looks at her with pity and puts extra honey in the iced tea she brings to his room as an excuse to interrupt them. His father calls her miss, asks what time her parents expect her home. 

In September, when the son leaves for college, the packages still do not stop. Being relieved of the duty of moral instruction—at least in the day-to-day—awakens the new empty-nesters to neglected appetites. They have been discussing lately how they should maybe move closer to the city. When that month’s pair arrives, they take turns trying on the stretchy blue bikini briefs still damp at the gusset. They couple on the floor, and the discarded tissue paper rustles underneath them. In the morning, they both sign the card they will tuck into the first care package they mail to their son: a dozen vacuum-sealed snickerdoodles, a few colored pens and highlighters, a framed photo, body wash, a new toothbrush and, although his mother made sure he left home knowing how to do his laundry, a 6-pack of Hanes boxer briefs. It’s not quite an apology, but they want him to know they’re thinking of him.