Jules is slipping on my pants. It’s this pair of clubbing pants, red nylon, with zippers up the sides. There are also zippers on the pockets, which is great for clubbing. Jules has them on: it’s her brown legs, a white pair of panties, and my red pants. These three colors together..and I’m ready to get married.
Jules doesn’t ask to take them. She doesn’t say: "Hey, can I borrow these?" She just checks herself out in the mirror, zips the crotch, and goes on with her day. Those pants are hers now. There’s no place I’d rather they be—than on her body.
"You wanna go to lunch?" I ask.
"No," she says, mock-annoyed. She smooths the pants down, touching the front of herself.
We won’t leave the house till late that night. But I don’t care.