‘Oh.’
‘Hm?’
‘No, it’s nothing.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just those… those pants.’
‘Those what?’
‘Your underwear; your pants.’
‘What about them?’
‘They’re… bold.’
‘Boldly going where no pants have gone before.’
‘Bright, you know?’
‘You say bold like it’s a bad thing.'
‘They’re certainly out there.’
‘Well no one’s going to see them.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Other than you, obviously.’
‘Other than me.’
‘Obviously.’
‘And you yourself.’
‘Sure.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Do you want me to change them?’
‘Change?’
‘Yes, change pants. If these ones are upsetting you so much I can put a different pair on.’
‘No! I wouldn’t want you to.’
‘You seem as though you would.’
‘What, and inconvenience you?’
‘It’d be no trouble.’
‘No. It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything. You asked, and I said. That’s all.’
‘I’ll put on a different pair.’
‘Don’t you dare open that drawer.’
‘I suppose I shouldn’t have asked then?’
‘Put those briefs down.’
‘It’s my own fault for asking, I suppose.’
‘Please just wear the pants.’
‘I’ll wear plain white briefs, so as not to upset your sensibilities.’
‘Damn my sensibilities. Sorry… No, but really.’
‘It’s done.’
‘Oh but really, Charles.’
‘What?’
‘Was it really worth all that?’
‘Worth all what?’
‘All that faff.’
‘To make you happy? Anything.’
‘Oh now don’t be twee.’
‘I’m not being twee. Honestly if a rearrangement of the furniture downstairs, so to speak, were to make you happy it’d be worth anything.’
‘How profound.’
‘Are you nearly ready?’
‘No one would have seen them.’
‘Are you wearing that belt? Can I borrow it?’
‘But they will have read about them.’
‘It’s just that the brown one isn’t going to go with these… what?’
‘Black on white.’
‘Leslie.’
‘Just there for all to see.’
‘L. Stop.’
‘You might as well parade down the blasted street with nothing on but your underwear.’
‘Leslie! You’ve read the latest issue then.’
‘Was that a question?’
‘No. No, not really.’
‘What was the line?’
‘Which… oh.’
‘What was it? Something like “Stripped down, the floor a technicolour crime scene of interwoven underwear…” something.’
‘Interwoven underwear softly mocking our soft mocking.’
‘Quite.’
‘You don’t like it.’
‘Was that a question?’
‘I’m not sure. It depends on your response.’
‘Here. The brown one won’t go with your trousers.’
‘Thanks… They don’t know you Leslie.’
‘Who?’
‘Anyone. Anyone who reads the poems. They don’t know you.’
‘No. I suppose they don’t.’
‘So does it matter if they know the colour of my underwear? Or yours, for that matter?’
‘No, they don’t know me. You’re right. They know the version of me you put onto paper. The most interesting version of me for your poetry. They know the version of me that fits into the rhyme scheme.’
‘I don’t use rhyme.’
‘Don’t be pedantic, Charles, it doesn’t suit you.’
‘You’ve read enough of my work to know I don’t rhyme.’
‘Are you nearly ready?’
‘I wasn’t trying to be pedantic.’
‘Are you wearing the tweed?’
‘I really don’t see how a description of my underwear in a poem is taboo.’
‘Because if you’re wearing the tweed I won’t wear the houndstooth. We’ll clash.’
‘No. You go ahead.’
‘It’s not about the underwear.’
‘No, apparently it’s about suit jacket patterning now.’
‘Humour doesn’t suit you either, Charles.’
‘Go on then. What’s it about?’
‘Is nothing sacred? That’s all I want to know. Is nothing private in our lives?’
‘It’s all fictionalised. I don’t name names.’
‘But anyone who knew you personally must know. It’s… embarrassing. Dangerous, even.’
‘Now who’s being humorous?’
‘I’m not joking, Charles, you know how people can be. Aren’t you frightened?’
‘Loving you doesn’t frighten me, Leslie.’
‘Ever the bleeding poet.’
‘Are you ready?’
‘You aren’t upset, are you?’
‘Are you?’
‘It was only… I was just… it was a soft mocking.’
‘Are you ready? Go on then.’