They lay together in the afterglow. Then she flopped to her back.
“Shit. I forgot to take out the trash.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it."
He strode naked out of the bedroom. A post-coital man, ready to take out the trash, macho as could be.
“Wait! Your clothes.” They remained in a pile on the floor at the foot of the bed.
He was still euphoric, a little cocky. Maybe he should tell her. No, it was still too soon.
He knotted the garbage bag and lifted it from it’s waste-can. He made his way down the steps to the front door.
“Don’t go out naked! The neighbors…”
“I’m okay.”
He stopped in the foyer, closed his eyes and concentrated. “Pants on!” he whispered.
Immediately he was clothed from the waist down. Red corduroys. For the umpteenth time he wondered how the power chose the pants. Was it random? Or some cosmic commentary he couldn’t glean? Were these someone else’s pants? They seemed clean.
All this raced through his mind as he took out the trash. He would shed the pants back in the kitchen and they would be gone when they came out again.
He told her he’d thrown a towel around himself. She’d looked at him funny, but why should she disbelieve him? He should have just come back for his regular pants, but he’d been feeling good, and didn’t want to disrupt his flow. They settled back into bed, the woman, the man, and his secret.
--Dan Kilian
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