I drove to Sa’afia’s with tomorrow’s underpants, socks and shirt riding shotgun in the bucket seat. I’d left last night’s shirt with her, with instructions to get the curry traces cleaned out of it, but I didn’t expect ever to wear that shirt again. 

Man’s business shirt, above sub-pudendal inter-gracile fossa.

Sa’afia worked the same hours I did, and she’d had no chance to do more than leave it to soak. Or rub it with soap or spray it, or whatever she preferred.

I was a bucket man, myself, with a bit of oxygen bleach in tepid water. Though, truth be told, mostly I just expected stains to wash out or fade over successive washes. I’d put salt on red wine stains and hope for the best.

I bet Sa’afia had opinions on that. If we ever got tired of fucking and discovering each other, we could have that chat about doing the laundry. Anyway, I brought along another shirt for tomorrow.  

Trojan horse, with Trojans. And lubricated wire coathangers, apparently.

In any case, I was going to give her last night’s shirt. She’d looked good in it. Once I’d given it to her, when she wore it she’d look more than good. She’d look mine.

Sa’afia would know what shirts mean, so her wearing it for me would be an admission, affirming my acquisition and her acquiescence. A man’s shirt might look innocuous, but as a gift to a woman it’s a Trojan horse. 

In the same spirit I’d stopped by a chemist and brought a new pack of condoms and a toothbrush. To say that when I visited I fucked her, that I intended to go on visiting and fucking her, and we should be prepared for that. And to say that I stayed the night, thanks. I was going to let Sa’afia see me leave them both in her bedside drawer.

Or maybe I should put them some place her mother wouldn’t look.