Gisela confessed to Martô, her best friend, that no single piece of recent news had shocked her more that the newfound trendiness of boxer shorts.
-I don't think you understand, said Giselda.
-I understand, said Martô.
-Júlio wears boxers.
-I know.
-And it gave a certain sense of security, you know?
Martô understood. It was later in the afternoon. The two had kicked off their shoes and had their feet on the coffee table, in Giselda's living room. Young ladies.
-I know its stupid, but you know what I'm saying, continued Giselda.
-Absolutely.
-They were, like, a symbol. Júlio's boxers. Of stability. Of good sense. Of a sort of resignation. In a good way.
-Of course.
-So one day he starts wearing tighty-whities. Speedos. Colorful ones! What do you think that means?
-Another woman.
-Exactly. Or other women.
-You bet.
-But no. He always insisted on wearing boxers. He hated new underwear. Wanted to always wear the same ones. Even the ripped ones, it didn't matter. How can you not trust a man like that? Let me tell you something. Underwear is character.
-A man's underwear reflects the state of his heart.
-Do you think I'm joking?
-What? I'm agreeing with you.
-I insisted that he get new underwear. But deep, deep down, I liked it. And now this...
-What?
-Boxers are trendy again.
-Uh-huh.
-Now he won't be embarrassed to pull his pants down in front of another woman.
-Or women.
-Or women. It's really not his fault. He didn't change. Fashion changed. He is still the same serious and conservative man. He didn't go out trying to change his life. Life changed him. I'm gonna have to keep my eye on him. Keep my eye right on him. Do you think I'm overreacting?
-Nope.
After Martô left, Giselda went off to make Júlio and the kids' dinner. Hours later, watching a made-for-TV movie while Júlio snored beside her, as she ran through the conversation in her mind, it hit her. She called Martô.
-Martô?
-What is it, Gil?
-What did you mean when you said, "I know"?!
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