Relegation of icons

There are points when one senses nails in the lids of coffins.

For far longer than my Wife and I have slept separately, I have, from time to time, tormented myself by looking in Her underwear drawer. For no reason less noble than to fuel my own self destructive optimism, in the hope that maybe today She’s wearing the Infamous Red. That maybe something has changed. That a positive decision has been made.

Today was such a day.
Today was different.
Today was not the same.
Today there was a conspicuous twist to how the contents of the drawer was arranged.

The Infamous Red torsolette was, as it has always been, buried at the bottom of the drawer.
The Infamous Red bra had been relegated to the back corner, behind all others.
The Infamous Red briefs, thong and suspended belt segregated in the other back corner, under the red lace thong She bought for Herself more than a decade ago.
And even the single pair of red lace boy-shorts have now been retired to the back of the drawer, buried under the ivory lace She bought for our wedding day and which hasn’t been worn for years.

All that was left in positions of convenience was mundane practicality.

Even though underwear is my obsession, not Hers, and it is I that has invested such significance in The Infamous Red Collection, it’s difficult not to assume the reorganisation was a considered move. There’s nothing to suggest my Wife has any inkling that I would be aware of it, yet the shift of lingerie is surely the result of conscious thought.

And it is equally difficult not to regard it as profound.

The irony is, that in my frustration fueled angst, I contemplated “accidentally” leaving a thong or two on the washing line, where they could be stumbled upon. Or hurriedly forgetting to lock My Little Wooden Chest Of Naughty Secrets or pushing it back under my bed. And I have continued to mull this over in the week or so since.

Perhaps I should drive in the last few nails.

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