Reality and the Man Who Wore A Bra
It was a sunny Saturday morning and Reality was lurking in a hydrangea bush whilst it stared through the blinds of Steve's humble first floor apartment. The blinds were drawn, which dissuaded most prying eyes, however to Reality, the spaces between the blinds were as wide as the rings of Saturn and it could see Steve as clearly as if they had been standing no more than a carbon atom's breadth apart from one another.
Steve, a muscular fellow in his late 30's with a penchant for working on his goatee and a gleaming motorcycle in the garage he was far too afraid to ever ride, was trying on a new brassiere. Reality admired the way the low-cut black lace brassiere adorned Steve until admiring from a distance was no longer sufficient. Closer inspection was required. With an expression of determination, Reality gathered its purloined soft royal blue satin nightgown about what passed for legs and stepped through Steve's wall with what it hoped was a graceful movement.
Steve's eyes bulged as the giant dark wraith slipped into his home and clutched his Victoria's Secret brassiere to his chest like a talisman.
“Oh God,” he croaked. “I am going to die wearing lingerie.”
“ARE YOU?” Reality inquired. “THERE ARE WORSE WAYS TO DIE, I SUPPOSE. MUCH WORSE WAYS,” it mused ominously.
“Please,” Steve stammered, “Just make it quick.”
“MAKE IT QUICK? YOU WISH FOR ME TO MAKE YOU LINGERIE? DO I LOOK LIKE A SEAMSTRESS?” Reality was confused, however it was not concerned by being confused for confusion was, to a large extent, Reality's natural state of being. Very little in the world ever made sense, and the few things that were coherent and certain, like death and taxes, seemed to usually be cause for great concern.
Steve gaped, and Reality passed the time, which from its perspective passed at the liquid slow speed of a dandelion unfurling its yellow petals to the sun, by swishing its pretty blue satin nightgown about the place, hoping that Steve might notice it and perhaps make comment.
“Am I dead yet?” Steve asked eventually.
“DEAD? I DO NOT THINK SO,” Reality replied, a hint of annoyance in its deep booming voice.
“You're not death, coming for me?”
“DEATH?” Reality was insulted. Death always wore the same tatty old black robe it had worn since the dawn of time. Death would never have thought to have shown up in such a charming and debonair fashion.
“I AM REALITY,” Reality explained with a wounded air.
“Oh. Reality,” Steve mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“I WEAR A DRESS. YOU WEAR A BRA.”
