After a couple of months of living together, we had an unspoken rule that each could borrow the other's clothes whenever she liked as long as they were back in the closet, washed, and pressed within a few days. It worked so well that in a while we kind of forgot who owned what.

But things changed the day I found that I was out of clean pants. It was my turn to do the laundry, and I'd gotten behind in it. Borrowing jeans and dresses was one thing, but underwear… I wasn't sure. I padded down the hall to Laura's room to ask if she had any spares. It would be a little weird, but I thought she'd be cool. I knocked on her door. Damn! She was at the gym. I'd forgotten. Oh well, nice girls don't go commando! I'd borrow them now and have them back before she knew anything. I pushed the door open, and a familiar floral scent filled my nostrils. She'd borrowed my perfume again. On her, the light fragrance took on a slightly different scent: headier and muskier. I breathed it in. I liked it.

Stepping over discarded magazines and makeup bottles, I made my way over to her chest of drawers. Pants and bras of every kind spilled out all over. I let my fingers trail through the lace of a delicate bra, savoring the feel of the silk against my skin. I suddenly felt guilty, as though I were somewhere I shouldn't be.

Rummaging through the tangled strips of silk, cotton, and lace, I saw a flash of stripy underwear in the corner and identified them as a pair of girl-boxers I'd noticed Laura lounging around the apartment in. I stepped out of my pajama bottoms so that I was naked but for my white bra. I slipped the boxers on, enjoying the way they felt, slightly loose, so that the air could still get to my skin. I admired myself in Laura's full-length mirror. I looked good, although not as pretty as Laura.