“What?” I say. “I’m Harry,” he says, tapping his chest with the blender. “I thought I heard you say my name and something about … panties?” Van snorts, and the man—Harry—drops his gaze to the underwear and bras still clutched to my chest. This feels like a strange sort of life lesson, like the reason why no one should walk around Walmart holding—and arguing about—undergarments.
