Sure, buying a pair of black panties would have been more convenient than stealing Rachelle’s, but Dean’s never found any fucking in convenient.

Starting out does take time. Looking for work is work. That some of his friends have found good jobs is inevitable, what with their weak grades, anaemic vocabularies and absolute inability to think independently. Just because Rachelle dumped him after two years around the same time she started bringing home fifty-plus doesn’t necessarily mean she’s superficial, materialistic and self-centred.

"Do you think I’m going to work at The Information for the rest of my life, that Film and Anthro are the perfect prerequisites for ‘another draft buddy’? I don’t. There are moments when I’m afraid and I’m sure as hell frustrated most of the time, but I don’t really believe bartending is my fate. Sounds like I’m alone in that opinion."

They haven’t even spoken for six or seven weeks and technically Dean’s returning to Rachelle’s apartment as Natallie’s date. Well, returning to her at least. The apartment’s new. No, not returning to her. Near her. Tonight’s the house warming.

New to the turf, invitation uncertain and sharing a doorway with Natalie, Dean nonetheless struts in like an exiled crown prince. Moi, moi he kisses, throwing lips across the crowded room at each glacier cheek. Drop the girl, gain a drink, case the joint. New knives, Wusdorf Trident. The kilim, their kilim, now a wall hanging.

One-time author of an "elegant, riveting" undergraduate thesis on filmic cross-cutting and shamanistic dream voyages and now a master of "real limey" margaritas, Dean divides life into busy work or doubt. Two different women named Jen(n) tell him they’re in Synergy Motivation. Heads Up bats around the room like a concert balloon. Heads Up as a thing. Working in a bar dispels any hope that three quick glasses of wine might be the antidote to convergence-this and signing-off-that. A bedroom, that’s an antidote.

Darker of course, but palpably cooler. Even in his half-light, the Yves Klein monochrome above the bed is a jolt of pure, blue energy. Dive into the electric blue. Be a nuclear seal.

Not finding any bedside reading to disapprove of, he’s quickly over to the high, faux art nouveau dresser. Double curled handles. Curvaceous blonde inlays. Top drawer out like a dream. Slow, slow, slow to avoid a single squeak. The dim light and careful pace reveal only a centimetre at a time. Blacks huddle and hide in the deep, wide shadow. More and more drawer must open to dissolve the bumpy mass into matte cotton and iridescent silk, discernible lace, tiny clasps and gauzy stockings. Klein Blue reaches between his legs to grab the electric handful of his testicles as black, crimson, indigo, ivory and white become high-riders, low triangles, wide bras, thin cups, half-length socks and endless tights. His fingers trace the wood first, up the side straight and hard before diving cotton, silk, silk. A finger slides effortlessly into the thinnest of hip straps to tug one little bundle free of its neighbours. Another finger has just hooked the second hip when he spots Rachelle standing in the doorway.

One of the seven Canadian men who didn’t grow up playing hockey, and living in a country without national service, Dean has grown into adulthood little bloodied and little bloodying. Violence for Dean is much like economics, entirely theoretical and rarely interesting. Seeing Rachelle with arms crossed and one of her black waistbands stretched between his fingers, Dean is either thinking violently or simply picturing Clint Eastwood.

In his grandfather Western, Eastwood walks into the saloon to take on an entire roomful of posse and wins with a toss, not a gun. Every hired hand in the place is shocked when Eastwood’s rile appears to jam. That fake jam is Move 1. Move 2 is the clincher. Eastwood tosses the apparently faulty rifle at the first line who, flash men of dexterity and bravado they are, reach to snatch the Winchester from the air. Move 3 is the crouch and pistol work that levels the full handed men and their blocked compadres beyond. Eastwood slaps that hammer and Dean tosses the panties at Rachelle. Watching their black arc he’s able to string together two options. If she steps to avoid the expensive missile, he’ll start joking, apologizing and disagreeing his way to one dollop of shame square on the chin. If she lets them hit her, he’ll reach for a handful of thigh. Rachelle has a third idea.

Stepping forward she catches the panties in mid-air with her teeth. Frisbee dog, she shakes black in her triumphant mouth. "Gee Dean, I missed you too."

Young stage actors are often coached with belly buttons and imaginary string. To cross a stage with purpose, to soften the belief we control our bodies, imagine you are getting tugged ever so gently by an invisible string tied to your belly button. Dean crosses to Rachelle on a navel string of intuition to grab the black in her face.

"I need to borrow these."

"Couldn’t you just rent a video?" All this through clenched, tugging teeth.

"No really, it’s a different kind of experiment."

"Girls panties. Whoopee cushion. Polaroid. Maybe a wig?" Suddenly she yields her catch. "You’re not making another film, are you?"

"Have you ever seen a choking by gold card?"

"Okay Dean, sneak the panties." She throws just a sliver of ass into her exit walk. "You’ll wash them, by hand, when you’re done."

Sadly, disastrously, affair sex is usually great. One-sided, two-sided, the first, the second, the third time. Make up sex has just the right mix of attention and combat. Second language sex—amazing to see where the humour comes out. Although usually high in alcohol, proximity sex (housemates, best friends of siblings, co-workers) is notably voracious. Fresh divorce sex offers a very good bid to make up for lost time. But is there a better sex than post-break up sex? Knowledge doesn’t get packed away with the photos and trinkets. Lust doesn’t believe you can never go home again.

Dean tries to keep the sex ghosts at bay while walking between shops. Opening the door to Rose and Thorn Lingerie, he heads straight to the sales counter. "As strange as this might appear, I don’t want to seem like I’m shopping with my pockets." He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket for Rachelle’s undies. "I’ve got a new friend, so I’ve brought something along. Size can be such a, well, thorny issue. What can you recommend?"

Although nothing special, a black blazer from Kensington, the jacket is crucial. He can’t just pull a ball of underwear out of his jeans. No, inner jacket pocket, undies folded once like a construction paper valentine. It’s just after 5PM. He still has to hit Agent Provocateur, Second Skin, and Just Black before taking over a shift at 8.

"The Information."

"You say that with such authority."

"Born spy."

"Okay Bond, when do I get the gear back?"

"They’re not exactly your only option."

"Glad to hear you got through the whole drawer. Maybe they’re my lucky pair."

"I’m sorry, do you need luck these days?"

"What is it that sharpens the rapier wit, cutting the lemons or short changing Karen the waitress?"

"Counting other people’s money before I sleep. All right if I bring them back late afternoon Sunday?"

"Any chance you’ll bring an explanation."

"I though you might prefer the shroud of mystery."

"Hello again," Dean starts off at Rose and Thorns. "I was in for these Friday night. Turns out … well, let’s just say they won’t be needed anymore." The Rose. Agent. JBs. Skin. Heather: 920-0528. Nothing. Nothing. Michelle: 869-5255.

When Dean first read Milan Kundera’s suggestion that men want beautiful women whereas women want men who have had beautiful women he thought, Milan, you dog. Old world dog. Months later in the trickling wisdom that closed a fight between him and Rachelle, though, she made a bridge back to politely sexist Milan.

"Circle of kids around two guys bloodying each other’s noses."

"What did it look like when two girls fought?"

"We weren’t a pay-per-view school, so I didn’t get much girl on girl."

"Unh, unh. It’s never girl on girl. It’s girls on girl. Democratic hate. Sally cross you? Or, more simply, Sally looking weak? Turn Lisa against Sally. Mary—who likes Lisa but isn’t liked much by her—will phone you within a day and a half. Pretty soon Sally’s friends are going to have to decide where they stand in the new world order. It works precisely because next month it’s going to be somebody else on the outside, quite probably you."

"If I’d listened more carefully, would I have learned all of this in the skipping songs? Rich man, poor man / Divide. Conquer. Crush?"

"Not a word of it. Mothers don’t tell. Maybe they hope it’s no longer there. If it is, either confession—outer, outed—isn’t exactly mother of the year stuff."

"I’d say bluffing. They’re a prop. You make it sound like I’m touring construction sites at lunchtime."

"Well what did you think I’d make of your little show and tell?"

"Frankly I can’t see how you would mind." This he lets dangle.

"Stacey saw you. If you’re wondering."

"Stacey saw me what?"

"Your little trade up the ladder number."

"Yeah, what did she sound like as she told you?"

"Pi-ig."

"Listen. That little black Faria sweater I gave you, do you only wear it around the house now because it wouldn’t feel right to go out hot in something I gave you? … I thought not. Same principle."

"C’mon Dean, there are no principles in panties."

"If you think about it," Rachelle begins her next call, "there’s nothing pant-like about them. I’m assuming that’s how it works, like booties for tiny, softer boots. Back in the days of knee-length bloomers I could see it: pants, panties. But now—the focused V, the hip-hugging triangle—shouldn’t we move on?"

"Not much pant in a thong."

"So this stunt of yours worked, did it?"

"Suppose that depends on what point we call it working, but, yeah, it paid off."

"Well why not go with the real thing next time?"

"Wouldn’t you miss it if I borrowed your ass for a few days?"

"Let’s go shopping tomorrow night. Your credit card. My me. Return the stuff later with your broken man bit and see how you do."

"Uh, yeah, okay—"

"—-panty got your tongue?"

"For a minute. Stop by for a drink on Friday around 6:30."

"If I’m in the neighbourhood and feeling a little daffy, sure."

The drum n’ bass loops. The snaking lights. The ostentatious porn.

Dean has barely seated himself in the low slung, leopard skin chair when Rachelle returns from the change-room. Barefoot and already down to one of her smaller undershirts, Rachelle steps past the attendant Monique and the helpful Denise. She drops her cellphone into Dean’s lap and then turns on an ad-lib dime.

The refundable prostitution. The germ money. The fluorescent love.

Rachelle arrived in a kinderwhore/vamp fusion of midriff and mascara. A triangle emerged in just seconds with Monique and Denise all but throwing aside their take-out cappuccinos to conspire, compete and compliment. Rachelle’s "I’m looking for something a little more swishy," was the secret password of fashion. Out came the black. The parade of svelte Tachtel®, astronaut glitter and gauzy polyamids began. Cling and flow. Drop and rise. Watching Rachelle strut back to the change-room, Dean would gladly hold onto a bomb so long as he could watch the apple music of her ass.

The thongs. The VPLs. The nothings.

Breastless fifth wheel that he is, Dean goes on the attack. "Wool and nylon!? … Those blacks together? Uh-uhh. … Too beachy for socks."

Who is this guy tacking back each corner of the chair with his shoulders? Where did those pianist’s fingers come from? Sensing the gravitational turn of Monique and Denise (fickle tramps), Rachelle stoops to folding up her hair in both hands. "Yeah that’s it," Dean practically yells, stealing fire. She’s forced to tug at her bra just to maintain ground. Back in the change-room, she jerks nobody’s pants down with both thumbs.

At the checkout, Monique and Denise smile their lip-gloss smiles, Dean has swallowed the canary and Rachelle is forced to lash.

"Aren’t you going to phone us a cab?" she asks public-transport Dean.

"Sure." He digs her phone out of his jacket. "Any particular company?"

"Whomever you normally use."

She can see his eyes tighten, can’t they?

"I’ll call you a cab," Monique intervenes, tearing herself away from fluffing and refluffing the top of the bag tissue paper.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Dean proposes, "Why don’t I buy you a drink before we decide what’s next?"

"This is my idea as much as it’s yours. Let’s just go. FX it is."

Rachelle refusing alcohol is never a good sign. "I didn’t say it wasn’t your idea. I asked you if you wanted a drink."

"No, you said, ‘Why don’t I buy you a drink?’ which is more like asking me if you can ask me if I want a drink."

"Okay fuck the drink. Let’s hustle our way to happiness."

"Fine."

The F-word. He’d bit his tongue to avoid saying and now wishes he was the one to let fly. He considers pinching one of her long, creamy triceps but is saved by the arrival of the cab. "Well then, until we drop." Thankfully the driver’s posted ID gives Dean an idea.

"How about fake names? Nadya? … Or Cassandra? Like an alias. An alter ego."

"Okay …" and then her eyes finally match the sheen on her lips, "I want Bowie."

"Perfect."

"And what about you, old Smuggs?"

"Me, I should have grown a little shit-sucking moustache."

Outside FX Dean pays the cab and then hurries on ahead, muttering "Play along with Chad," without giving her a chance to reply. Inside they telepathically synchronize their runway struts. Don’t clench your jaw. No, open your spine. Fan your ribs and stretch up your spine until you feel the helmet of your skull. Let your jaw dangle off its hinges. Wear your own power.

Terrifically arrogant shop girls soon flank Rachelle on both sides while Dean slaps down onto a cherry red inflatable chair. Just before Rachelle reaches the corrugated iron change-rooms, he asks, "How many times did Chad come shopping?" He waits until her second trip to the change-room—no, no, try the hooded one—before surreptitiously phoning a friend and asking him to call right back.

"Can you get that?" Bowie calls out.

"Sure." Dean’s face hardens instantly, and he tosses the phone at a startled lady in waiting. "Tell her it’s Chad."

"Chad" opens the change-room quicker than tear gas. Flushed, Rachelle emerges in one shoe and the business half of a slip-dress. The clerks suddenly find sweaters to refold as Rachelle approaches chesty and apologetic.

"I said two words to him: It’s over."

"Useful words."

"So long as there’s trust."

Biting his cheek to avoid laughing Dean watches her cream turn, her purring walk. It’s amazing she hasn’t imploded. Perhaps spontaneous combustion starts with swishing hips and plump, dove breasts. He floats, an erection stranded on the trapped air of an inflatable plastic chair.

When they do fuck—stepping over wine glasses and bottles, sweeping shopping bags off the bed with a blind backhand—Rachelle looks every bit at home in a Caetano shoulder sweater and Dean wonders how much wine it will take the next time. Her asking him to open a second bottle, had it been fun or insulting? Dean the tattoo needle. His hand, his fist, reaches for her sweater.

And soon there are no questions. Hair. Skin. The long play and dive. His boxy hip. Her cow-tongue feet. Riding his tailbone, she erases the months they’ve been apart. Holding her by one wrist, he knuckles the spot at the base of her neck. She coos at every tug and scratch of the sweater. Avoiding the dangling, cardboard tags and plastic loops would be far too cautious. No, each tag is a tiny, hidden pang, a tooth in the soft, fabric fur. One, two bites across the high plains of her chest. Twice up each swarmy thigh. Reaching into another bag then up her dress, Dean uses both hands to saw a camisole through her crotch. Naturally the camisole is rubbed over his whiskers, wrapped around his neck, balled into his kidnapped mouth. Then the flailing. Her thighs. His back. All clothes off, the saw-tooth camisole is the tiny black she squirms into as they slide Dean in. The straps he tears down.

"I guess this one’s a keeper," he finally says, tugging her camisole stomach as they sink into pillows.

"Ooooh, the pampering."

"Don’t let it go to your head."

"Or what, next week I’m down to Smart Set? One more peep out of me, young lady, and it’s Suzie Sheer for good?"

Finally he can just smile, squeeze a warm hand and smile.

Accepting the coloured rope handles of various bags in the late morning sun, Dean jokes. "Feels like custody."

"At least it feels like something."

He doesn’t kiss her and he doesn’t walk away quickly enough and there’s next Saturday, Saturday.

Darryl Whetter is a professor of Creative Writing at the University of Windsor.