Minor Revelation
Chella Courington
She cleaned out her underwear drawer every thirty days. Any clothing next to Diana's body called for special treatment. Not a teddy or slip type, she wore bras and pants barely felt under her T-shirt and jeans. Cotton was the fabric when younger. "It breathes better. With a cotton crotch you'll never have a yeast infection," her mother would say. Cotton crotches took priority. But when Diana left for college, she discovered the bliss of nothing. Skin against denim, perfecting her liberation, but a real downer for her grades. She couldn't concentrate on anything except Mrs. Dalloway and Women in Love. When Sally kissed Clarissa on the lips, Diana pressed two fingers against her Carotid artery: 110 and rising. When Ursula traced the line of Birkin's loins with her hand, Diana breathed unusually deep and fast, toes tingled. After her first semester with a 2.0 GPA including the A in English, she ditched Geronimo. But not for cotton. For satin and nylon bikinis—something acquired by accident, forgotten by her lover, now arriving in boxes wrapped in plain brown paper, no return address. 

First published: August, 2011
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