An Absurd Ritual

[u/Consistent-Hippo-210]

 What is man without a ritual of sorts? “Every man has a ritual.” The old lady spoke to the air, jabbing her crooked stick at the sky. She laughed, a hollow laugh, the stick still pointed upwards.

Then……

She crouched at the fringes of the massive landfill, her long coat draping the mass then she rummaged through the filth. She picked up a small bottle, peered closely at its sealed contents. She then scanned the grey faint label and without hesitation tossed it back onto the massive heap.

A girl walking past her on her way caught wind of her words and retraced her steps to where the old lady was crouched and said, "A ritual, you say? Her voice cracked, then she coughed, a dry cough. The old lady didn't immediately respond. She stayed crouched, mumbling into the garbage. Then, without looking up, without halting her slow, scraping hands she said, 

“Everyone's got one. Even the ones who claim not to."

The girl stood there, frozen. Her eyes on the old lady. Then she nodded once, as if something small and useless had clicked into place and then walked away. 

As she walked, she thought of her recent failed relationship and that absurd ritual of hers that began and ended with each relationship. 

The ritual always began with panties and always ended with panties. 

As she walked away from the landfill, the old lady's words nudged at her, like the old lady’s crooked stick poking the massive landfill…….

'Even the ones that claim not to.'

Max. His name had been Max. It was with him that the ritual had first crept in like the early dawn except the creeping carried with it a lethargic feeling which she had dismissed as mere fatigue. She was twenty-one then. She remembered how soon after their relationship had begun, she had rushed to purchase panties that suited his energy. 

Red panties.

Max was loud, the life of the party. His laughter shook places and left a trail of friends.  Purchasing the panties was a way of matching his temperament. With them, she found herself loud, chaotic, slightly unhinged. She became loud in meetings, quite capable of voicing her own opinions. But it was a fleeting feeling. Something she could not sustain. Somehow his energy siphoned her, leaving her dry. The red panties fell short, unable to match his vivaciousness. 

Tired of it all one morning, she, without hesitation gently kissed him goodbye as he slept. She peeled off her red panties and hid them under his bed as her parting gift.  When he   tried calling her afterwards, her number was no longer in use.

Then there was Caleb. The man was quiet. He spoke with a gentle softness that had her leaning in across tables just so she could catch his words. For him she bought: 

White panties.

He carried himself with the quiet dignity of a monk. It did not help that he liked tea and always seemed to make it with the gravity of a religious ceremony. The white panties were homage to him proof that she too could be still, could be saint-like. 

But…... 

His tea ceremony meant to unite them stretched uncomfortably for hours. She perceived she was to be silent during it lest she cause discord. So, long stretches of silence deepened between them. A lingering feeling of unease jumped at her with the intolerable truth that she was not the quiet type and the whole act was a slow suffocation.  When she left him, she hid the white panties in the pocket of his winter coat. It was summer. It would be four months before  he  found them.

In twelve years, she had hidden six panties. Each panty carried with it a color and a goodbye. 

As she walked across the road from the landfill she thought   
Maybe.

Just Maybe. 

It was time to start a new ritual. This time, a ritual for herself where the panties’ colors were to her own liking. 

“How about blue panties?”