Spanish Trace

Hi readers! I'm finally posting the story that appeared in Talking River. It's fiction! Finally -- something that isn't true like Second Day Reported. Thanks so much for reading -- hope you're coasting into the weekend, my dears!

Spanish Trace

I woke up to my neighbor, Tina Holmes, banging on my door, holding a pair of my boxers. I couldn’t figure out what the hell Tina was doing holding my drawers between her index finger and thumb, until I remembered that I’d done my laundry yesterday and must have left them in the dryer. Tina wore a Winnie-the-Pooh t-shirt and had brown frizzy hair that hadn’t been cut since Crystal Gayle’s heyday. She wasn’t anyone I wanted to see upon waking.

“Look familiar?” she asked.

“I didn’t realize I’d left anything behind,” I said. I reached and she let the briefs drop into my hands.

“You should be more careful. I figured it was you because I saw you hauling your laundry back yesterday and nobody else was in the laundry room.”

Actually, Tina knew everyone’s business because she was always sitting out next to the pool in a ratty black swimsuits with one of those little skirts that’s supposed to be slimming, but actually draws attention right to the hips, presumably the problem in the first place. The pool sat in the middle of the complex and collected every dead leaf and bug in sight. Sometimes somebody might take the net and skim the surface, but it was still too nasty to swim in if you were sober.

“Thanks, Tina. I owe.” I wondered why she couldn’t be the no-so-bright but very well-built community college student who lived across the way. This was just as well, though. You don’t want women dealing with you underwear too soon in a relationship.