The Big Girl's Guide to Buying Lingerie

10. BOXERS OR BOXER BRIEFS?

Promptly at 12:30, Rowdy stood on Skye’s doorstep.  Her neighborhood was made up of row upon row of pink stucco townhouses with white trim and garage doors and deep red Mexican tile roofs.  They all looked alike with small patches of grass and two or three saplings.  Not a full grown tree for blocks. 

At her door hung a basket overflowing with Spanish Moss and nearby sat two large terra cotta pots full of yellow and orange Marigolds.  His Skyebaby had a green thumb.  He smiled and rang the doorbell. 

His smile faded as an ugly little voice in his head reminded him their five minute engagement had been a sham, and she didn’t like “Rowdy.”  He was a redneck, a good ole’ boy and she was the daughter of a high-tone judge who wore pearls to a damn dancehall.

Then the door swung open and he found himself greeted by the mouthwatering smell of garlic and chicken and Skye dressed in the same faded denim capris and Drew Hartford t-shirt he’d seen her wearing at Target.  She had ankle socks on her feet and very little makeup.  Despite the dark circles under her eyes and mussed hair, she was smiling.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, come on in.”  She waved him in and stepped aside so he could pass.  Skye looked so worn out Rowdy was struck with the urge to tuck her into bed and coddle her a while.  Instead he paused to cup her face and plant a kiss on her cheek.  To his surprise she returned the gesture.  “Hungry?”

“Always.”  He followed her into the kitchen, taking in the darkened living room they passed through.  Tasteful but very sparse.  The room didn’t even look lived-in.  Her kitchen was another matter. 

The floors were the same off-white tile as the entryway and a huge chili ristra hung in the corner above a small glass-topped table.  Bright blue tile countertops contrasted with the pale sand colored walls and matching curtains that sported hieroglyphics along the border.  This room looked much more like the Skye he knew.  The one with eclectic tastes whose idea of a vacation was exploring Indian ruins in New Mexico or Central America.

“I didn’t set the table yet.  Do you want to eat outside on the patio or in here?”

“Sure it’s not too hot out there for ya?”  He resisted the urge to stick his finger in a bowl of what looked like fruit salad and scoop up a fingerful.  Pineapple, strawberries and little bits of coconut teased him, making his mouth water.

“I won't melt.”  She chuckled, the bit of color in her cheeks relieving some of the paleness.

“Then the patio works for me.”

With shaking hands, she poured their drinks and set out their lunch on a tray.  His offer to help was refused with a smile.  So he watched her bustle around, obviously too nervous to stay still for very long.

“You’re limping,” he noted when she returned from a trip outside. 

“Yeah, I didn’t have my walking shoes on last night.”

“Last night?”

“Come on, before the flies eat our lunch.”  She shooed him outside where she’d taken another small patch of yard and turned it into an oasis.  A cement fairy holding an iridescent sphere sat off to one side, water bubbling from the top of the ball. More hanging baskets and terra cotta pots overflowing with flowers decorated each side of the patio and made things cozy.

The small table for two was made up of more Mexican tile and had been set with pale blue plates.  They ate in silence a while--chicken salad filled with apples and walnuts on wheat rolls and her    fruit salad, heavy on the whipped cream.  Or rather, he ate.