Pocket

Maggie left a trail of panties in bar bathrooms across Chicago. Usually the more expensive, ugly pairs: flesh colored things made of dense polyester, meant to smooth, to flatten, to fool. It was when a hand found the curve of her ass that she knew she could get rid of them, that her job was done. That she had won. She didn’t want the hand to wander up and discover the thick elastic band an inch above her waist, so she’d excuse herself briefly and remove the offending panties in the ladies room and throw them–too bulky to fold into her purse–in the trash can or under the sink.

The prettier, smaller pairs, the fun panties that she wore on good days either stayed on, went into her purse, or sometimes into the man of the evening’s pocket, letting him worry about how to dispose of them before they were discovered by his wife.