Fatale Abstraction

Tuesday brought a phenomenal amount of rain. I grabbed my wool wrap from on top of the basket of clean laundry and threw it on the passenger side of my car when I left the house that morning. When I got to work, I noticed that a black bra had hooked itself onto the throw. I unhooked the beast and tossed it on the floorboard, where it looked at home with my black leather gloves, a bag from Panera and amongst a plethora of papers, discarded concert tickets and the other sorts of crap a floorboard will catch. Overcommitted as usual, I promptly forgot about the bra.



Thursday I went to lunch with a couple colleagues, one of whom insisted I drive. I said my car was a rolling garbage can and to simply deal with it. I thought no more of it until I was leaving work that afternoon and saw the black bra on the floorboard, and then I remembered that the man in the front passenger seat was an incredibly formal, strait-laced button-down type who may not have understood. Mortified, I called the considerably wilder friend who'd been in the back seat and left him a voice mail, laughing uproariously about how our very formal friend Jed must have been shocked and baffled by the situation.



My friend called me back and left me this voice mail: