...I wanna be your t-shirt when it's wet/ I wanna be the shower when you sweat....
She stares critically at my chest for a moment, then reaches into my bra and rearranges me. I stand, patient as a horse with a farrier, while she does this.
You'd expect this, maybe, of a bra saleswoman in a shop dressing room. It's Coco. We're in the office at the Center. Mr. J. stares, laughs. The new tech, not loquacious to begin with, is stunned to literal open-mouthed silence.
I realize suddenly that this seems odd public behavior to anyone who doesn't know us well.
Mr. J. attempts explanationtion. "They've been in theatre so long, you know."
Coco, undisturbed, regards my newly-fluffed bosom.
Is it better?
"Better. Before, you just looked.... squashed."
My sister is about to pull away. I stand in the drive, the sun on me.
Can you see my underwear?
She studies me, squinting.
How about now?
I tug down the side of my knit yoga trousers and flash her my lacy panties.
"You are so weird." She shakes her head and drives off.
He regards a flimsy object in my car. "Is that .... underwear?" A fair question. It could be.
Sort of. Not really. It's a tube top. For when I'm caught in a T-shirt or something and the sun's out.
He looks confused, disappointed and apprehensive, all at once.
([I Wanna Be] Your Underwear; Bryan Adams)