“I always liked the red.” He smiles lazily at me, holding the towel around his waist with a dangerous casualness, like he could drop it to the floor at any time. He raises both eyebrows, gives me an almost imperceptible wiggle of his hips.

I blush and look away, trying to ignore his presence behind me as I carry on stuffing everything into the drawer, the feeling of his eyes on the back of my head.

“Were you looking for something?” he asks.

Still facing away from him on my knees in front of the dresser, I shake my head. “Nothing important.”

“It never is,” he says with a sigh, scooping his phone from the bed and sauntering toward the little dressing alcove.

There was a time in our marriage when I would have reached out and grabbed the towel. When I would have slipped into the scraps of red lace poking out from the humdrum sea of black and tan microfiber/cotton blend. Chased him around the house.

Instead, I pick up my phone and begin scrolling through my own photos. I take a lot of pictures to help me remember. To confirm. Documenting every outfit helps me by linking my memories of what I was doing to the feel of certain fabrics against my skin: if I was wearing cotton or silk, or a slightly scratchy jumper like that mauve one I bought last year and still wear even though it gives me goosebumps if I move too quickly.

I scroll back through the album dedicated to shopping: the last week, then the last month; but there is no sign of electric-blue lace. I definitely did not buy these. And surely I would remember wearing them? Remember lying on the bed with a little smile and one finger jauntily hooked into the waistband waiting for him to take the picture.

There is a chance that Chris bought the set and then I put it on for him, too caught up in the moment and the fact that my husband had finally paid me enough attention to go out of his way. But we’ve been together for four years and he’s only ever bought me underwear once. A virginal white set for our wedding night. Since then, nothing.

Unless he’s trying to fuck with me. Again.

He thinks he’s so clever, but I will catch him out eventually. His “concerned husband” act is starting to wear thin, the edges fraying. I know he’s behind at least some of my “forgetful episodes,” even if I can’t prove it yet.

I can hear him in the kitchen, making coffee in that irritatingly precise way of his. All carefully measured and exacting, like he’s a chemist in a lab. He always looks horrified when I scoop some instant granules into a mug and slosh on some boiling water. Even worse when I top it up with cold water just so I can drink it faster. I begin to paw through his drawers. He is tidy and so I am slow, careful not to leave a wake of mess behind me. No blue lace. But something so small would be easy to hide and I don’t have time to take the house apart.