by Prashant Dhanke
Yesterday as the room service lady delivered the laundry to my room, I hesitated, “This bra is not mine”.
“Of course not, sir.” She slammed the door on her way back.
It’s a regular bra; black, 32B. Clara is bigger.
A copy of the laundry receipt has already gone to the company accountant; and she will talk. Clara will throw me out.
Sales Manager, 45, on a business trip, is getting lingerie washed at company’s expense while his faithful wife tends to the household chores and their 15 year old son.
That 15 year old was recently caught watching porn by his mother.
“You must talk to Harry.” Clara repeats.
Yeah right. Harry, read your books and please don’t jerk off!
And who am I to preach? The man who sleeps with a bra by his side. And how many times have my hands caressed the sin? A million.
Such fine shit. Who’s to blame? I didn’t put the fucking thing in my bag. Stupid laundry guys must have messed up.
Well, I better call Clara before the word reaches her. But she won’t believe me.
Maybe I should call Cynthia. Bless her for staying over with us for the month. She will explain it real nice to Clara, face to face.
My phone is ringing. Oh dear! It’s Clara.
“Clara, my angel, I miss you.”
“That’s alright honey, but you must talk to Harry first thing you are back.”
“What did he do now?”
“Cynthia’s bra is missing.”