By Annabeth Leong
They were definitely not her panties. Sarah stood beside the bed dumbly, dangling them off her pinkie finger, staring as if she might remember when she bought them if she just thought hard enough.
But they weren’t hers, and she knew it. Sarah owned practical panties, the kind that wicked moisture away from her crotch efficiently when she worked out. These were lacy, embellished things, sexy specifically because of their impracticality. The pale blue scrap of material was little more than a ribbon, really, but it summoned images of hips and inner thighs. Not Sarah’s hard, muscled body. The panties conjured a softer woman, one who smelled floral, not sweaty.
Christ knew, she hadn’t been with a woman in forever, which meant Todd must have.
Sarah waited, but no anger came. After a moment, she realized she was rubbing the panties between her thumb and first finger. They felt nice. She wondered how they smelled.
She felt like a perv lifting them to her face, but she did it anyway. She took a deep breath, remembering college, her roommate, the things they did but never talked about. Metaphors of salt and ocean had never made sense to her. Woman smelled like woman. No other scent came close.
The panties had at some point been very wet. Sarah wondered what Todd would tell her if she asked him about them.
She knew she wouldn’t. It was time for her own secrets, and she wouldn’t be so careless as to leave olfactory evidence. Her body thrilled with anticipation, not only at the thought of the place between a woman’s thighs, but also at the idea of the careful application of lotions to cover incriminating scents. She tucked the panties back where she had found them, and smiled to herself when she imagined how Todd would jump when he saw what they could reveal, and how he would feel safe, and how he would be wrong.