Live Your Truth

Evening settled over the parking lot in a wash of sodium-orange light, the sky fading toward indigo beyond the flat roofline of the box store. Automatic doors sighed open and Craig stepped inside, swallowed immediately by brightness. Fluorescent panels hummed overhead. Everything looked sharper under that kind of light. Harder. Less forgiving. Soft pop music drifted from unseen speakers, cheerful and hollow against the high ceilings. The store was quiet for that hour. A couple drifted through housewares. A teenager leaned against a cart near electronics. No one paying him any particular attention.

Men's basics were halfway down Aisle Twelve.

He stood there longer than necessary.

Packages of boxer-briefs hung in orderly rows: navy, black, grey. Familiar fonts. Familiar models smiling blandly from glossy cardboard. Hands reached out and lifted a pack of grey boxer-briefs. His size. Cotton blend. Four in a bundle.

The plastic crinkled under his grip.

A memory surfaced without invitation. Frank standing in the kitchen doorway. Casual. Unbothered. Holding up that scrap of black lace like it was nothing more than a misplaced sock.

"I think I got one of your pairs mixed in with mine. Sorry, bro."

Humiliation had burned hot and immediate, starting at the base of his neck and flooding outward. There had been no accusation in Frank's voice. No teasing. No raised eyebrow. Just mild confusion and an easy assumption that Craig wearing something like that was entirely normal.

Normal.

The thong had disappeared into his pocket in one swift movement. Dinner had still needed stirring. Garlic had still needed watching. Life had continued as if the world had not tilted on its axis.

Across the table later, fork in hand, he had felt stripped bare. Lace pressed discreetly against the inside of his pocket. Cotton pressed discreetly beneath his jeans. Two layers of secret. Every time Frank's eyes lifted, even casually, awareness had flared. Did he know? Did he suspect? Was he being polite?

Yet Frank had simply eaten. Talked about work. Tossed the car keys across the table when Craig asked to borrow them.

No questions.

The memory tightened something in his chest.

Thank God for bulk menswear.

Four pairs wouldn't cut it. Not with whatever strange magic had taken over his dresser drawer. On impulse, another identical pack came off the hook. Two bundles of four. Eight pairs. More than a week's worth. A buffer. Insurance. Security in sealed plastic.

His sneakers squeaked faintly as he headed toward the front. Harsh lighting followed him the entire way, reflecting off polished floors. The gum and candy rack by the tills glowed with artificial colour. Halfway there, a woman approached from the opposite direction, shepherding two small children. One clutched a stuffed dinosaur. The other dragged their feet.

Her gaze dipped briefly to what he carried.

A pause.

A look up at his face, then back down to the underwear, an uncomfortable widening of her eyes.

It lasted less than a second, but heat crawled up his spine anyway.

Oversensitive. That was all. After the g-string incident, everything felt loaded. She probably hadn't even registered it. Men bought underwear every day. Entire industries depended on it.

He kept walking.

Only one person waited at the register. A man with a few household items. Craig hovered behind him, shifting his weight. The baby blue cotton he'd put on after his shower settled differently now that he was standing still. Awareness flickered, then dulled.

Impulse rack. Mint gum. He grabbed a pack without thinking.

The man ahead paid and left. Craig stepped forward and slid the two packs of boxer-briefs and the gum onto the counter. The cashier was young. Early twenties, maybe. Tired eyes. Name tag slightly crooked.

She scanned the first bundle. Beep. The second. Beep.

Her gaze lifted to his face.

Something in her expression shifted. Subtle, but there.

"Someone's getting some underwear for their birthday?" she ventured, attempting lightness.

"Birthday?" Confusion knitted his brow. "These are just for me."

"For... you?" The words carried a flicker of disbelief before she seemed to catch herself.

"Yeah. Why?"

Colour rose in her cheeks. "Oh. Sorry. I don't mean to judge."

"Judge?" The word felt absurd in his mouth. "They're men's underwear. What's to judge?"

"Exactly," she rushed. "You're allowed to wear whatever you want. I shouldn't have even... I mean, I was just surprised. What I mean to say is, more power to you. You live your truth."

Silence pressed in, thick and strange.

Live your truth.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Understanding hit slowly, like cold water seeping through fabric. Her surprise hadn't been about him buying underwear. It had been about what she thought he usually wore, what she thought would be normal for him.

Forty dollars and sixty-eight cents blinked up from the display. He tapped his card. Machine beeped. Receipt printed.

"Have a good night," she said, overly bright now.

The plastic bags felt thin in his hand as he walked back through the sliding doors into the evening air. The parking lot seemed darker than before. Quieter.

Inside the car, doors shut, engine idling, he stared at the steering wheel.

Frank had assumed the thong was his. The cashier had assumed the boxer-briefs weren't. Cotton shifted faintly against his skin as he adjusted in the seat.

Somewhere between dream gods and dresser drawers, something fundamental had tilted. The world appeared to be operating on information he did not possess.

Headlights flicked on. The car eased out of the parking space. Grey boxer-briefs sat sealed beside him on the passenger seat.

Suddenly they did not feel entirely reassuring.