For the first time this year, snow has begun to blanket the ground. It's pretty as it falls, but it's turned into slush on the roads and the cold has frozen patches of slick ice at the edges of intersections. Instead of the typical twenty minutes it takes you to get home from work, you were on the streets for nearly an hour, narrowly avoiding collisions.
The heat of your apartment is a relief as you rush through the doorway, a package clutched in your arms, toeing off your boots at the edge of the rug. Already, it's grown dark outside, and the front hall is unnavigable without any lights on. You stumble over a discarded bag as you flip a switch with your elbow. With this newfound light, you dump your things on the bench directly across from the front door and carry the box you found outside, addressed to you, down the hall and into the kitchen.
You reach into the kitchen drawer beside the sink and pull out a pair of scissors, using one of the blades to slice into the tape running the length of the box. Then you drop the shears on the counter and peel back the cardboard flaps. There are layers of baby pink tissue paper cushioning the contents of the package and it crinkles between your fingers as you dig beneath it.
If anyone else was around, you would have to hide your face. There, at the bottom of the box, wrapped in transparent plastic, are three pairs of sheer panties, a glittery black mesh bra, and a lingerie set complete with garters and clips and elastic straps. You'd forgotten about the order you placed nearly two months ago at a party your friend threw. You hadn't even been inclined to purchase anything, but the pressure you felt to support the hostess had forced you to cave.
You set the plastic-wrapped garments on the counter and drop the box onto the kitchen floor, but something rattles around in its depths. Tissue paper tears as you squat down to slide your hand along the bottom cardboard panel. A smaller, glossy box is hiding in the corner. When you pull it from beneath the tissue paper, it looks like the packaging for a tube of lipstick. The box is hot pink, almost red, with bright green script that reads High, and in smaller letters above the word, Watermelon Sugar.
It takes a few flips of the box for you to realize that it's a lubricant. You are completely sure that you did not order this. So sure that you're ready to toss it in the trash or send it right back to the return address. You have the box hanging over the garbage before you remember.
A free sample. The consultant has said something about receiving a free sample when you spent a certain amount. But this? A fruit-flavored lube? You're not sure about this.
After a moment of hesitation, you close the trash can and begin to peel back the tiny cardboard flaps at one end of the box. You pull out a clear plastic tube filled with pink gel, a pump on one end. Silver lettering sparkles in the kitchen light.
What are you to do with this?
Physically, of course, you understand its purpose. But the idea of it makes your skin hot, even with the chilling press of winter upon your apartment's windows. After all, your relationship is new and fresh. It's too early for this.
Harry.
The thought jolts you from your train of consciousness. He's supposed to be coming over for takeout and a movie tonight. When you glance at the clock and see that it's already past the time you agreed upon, you tense. Perhaps he's been slowed by the slick roads the same way you were.
Then there's a soft knock upon the door. You hear it sliding across the rug in the entryway and Harry's, "Hey, love! 'S me."
You panic as the door closes. Harry is stamping snow off of his boots. You rush back across the kitchen and begin stuffing plastic-wrapped underwear back into the box on the floor, covering it in shreds of pink tissue paper, burying your bottle of watermelon-flavored lube at the bottom.
