Knicker-Gate

I’m back there again — that place I just can’t seem to escape, no matter how many exits I imagine. Work. Of course I am. Because apparently even my subconscious has a rota, and I’m still under contract. Only today, there’s a twist. It’s “bring your pet to work day.” And I’ve brought Monkey. He’s… thriving. Decked out head to toe in Royal Mail red — a crisp little jacket, matching cap perched between his ears, and a tiny mailbag slung across his shoulder like he’s got somewhere important to be. Which, judging by his pace, he absolutely does. He trots ahead of me, tail high, radiating competence. A man on a mission. A cat on a mission. I pause for a second, waiting for the inevitable — the cooing, the laughter, the “oh my GOD look at him—” Nothing. Not a flicker. Not even a courtesy side-eye. Everyone is glued to their own tiny universes — scrolling, sorting, existing — like I’m not standing here with the most outrageously dressed cat in the Western Hemisphere. “Come on, Monkey,” I chirp, forcing brightness I don’t feel. “Let’s load the van.” He glances back at me like finally, keep up, and carries on. On the way out, I hit a human roadblock. Ryan. And the new girl. Pinned in the doorway like a live-action PR complaint. There’s… a lot happening. Hands. Mouths. Limbs. Two guppy fish fused at the lips, quietly draining each other’s oxygen. “Erm… excuse me,” I say, soft enough to be polite. Nothing. “I just need to—” Still nothing. There’s tongue now. A full-throttle saliva fest. “Please can I just—” Nope. Hands drifting into areas where no hands should drift in a respectable work environment. Monkey, unimpressed, weaves between their legs and brushes against Ryan. Finally — a reaction. “Oh—sorry. Did you want to get by?” I blink at him. Hmm. No shit. Only about ten minutes ago. “Yes please,” I say, with all the authority of a damp napkin. Monkey gives me a slow, deeply judgmental eyeroll. The audacity. Out at the van, Mat’s already there. “Blimey,” I laugh, climbing up. “What is this? Bring your entire family to work day?” My voice echoes into the hollow space. Too hollow. Mat doesn’t laugh. “Mandy…” he says, face slightly ashen. “I found all these…” He tips the mailbags upside down. And they spill. Knickers. Worn. Used. Intimately, unapologetically used. A horrifying avalanche of cotton indecency cascades into a soft, shame-filled mound. I pick one up between pinched fingers, holding it at arm’s length like proximity alone might save me from STIs. “Who the hell would leave these?” Mat grimaces. “I don’t know. But they need to go.” “Yes,” I say quickly. “Yes they absolutely do.” I drop it like it’s radioactive. It lands with a soft, accusatory flop. “I’ll tell Rachel.” Rachel is, unsurprisingly, glued to her phone. “Umm… Rachel—” “Not now, Amanda,” she snaps, eyes wide. “I’ve almost won the jackpot bingo.” Of course you have. I hover. As always. Present, but functionally invisible. “Oh bollocks!” she shouts suddenly. “You made me lose!” Ah. Yes. My fault. Clearly. I exist. Therefore, disruption. “I didn’t—” “What do you want?” she sighs. “There seems to be—” “Amanda! Look!” Al appears from nowhere, as if summoned by my attempt to speak, thrusting a sketch into my face. Old timer. Royal Mail veteran. And now, apparently, an artist. “I’ve been working on this.” I blink. It’s… undeniably incredible. Charcoal. Sharp. Obsessively detailed. Uncomfortably alive. But the subject — It’s me. Being torn apart by Graham — workplace coach, profession destroyer of morale. His turkey teeth rendered with grotesque precision, each one glowing with authority. Bulging, theatrical, triumphant. And me… Shoulders hunched. Head bowed. Eyes glassy. Mid-collapse. Small. Painfully accurate. “Gosh…” I murmur, caught somewhere between impressed and quietly wounded. “Do I really look like that?” Rachel and Al nod like bobbleheads. Cool. Cool cool cool. Lovely. Really uplifting stuff. Back at the van, I start flinging the knickers onto the yard, each throw a small act of denial. Monkey leans in, sniffs once. Twice. Then physically recoils and retreats into the cab as if betrayed by his own acute sense of smell. “Eww! Why are you throwing your dirty underwear everywhere?” Lloyd bellows across the yard. “It’s not mine—“ Too late. Heads turn. Eyes lock. Judgement lands. Ah. Brilliant. Knicker-gate. Exactly the legacy I was hoping to leave. Perfect start to the shift. We drive off anyway. The pile shrinks in the rearview mirror, a soft, shameful landmark fading into the distance. I tell myself it’ll be forgotten. Something worse will come along. It always does. Our round takes us to a vast mansion. A long gravel driveway crunching underfoot, each step announcing my arrival, as loud as the fluorescent jacket I’m wearing. I hop out with one single, pathetic letter — because naturally, all of this for one useless piece of post — and then I see her. Phoebe. My Phoebe. Carrying a washing basket, like it weighs heavier than it should. “Fancy seeing you here—” I start, but stop. Her face. It lands before anything else does. The same quiet defeat. The same posture. The same dimming I saw in Al’s sketch. “What’s wrong?” I ask gently. “I thought things were going well.” She shakes her head. “No… I need to break up with him.” That jolts me. It shouldn’t — but it does. “He seemed… alright?” She leans closer, voice barely a whisper. “He’s too much… he follows me everywhere. I can’t breathe.” The words settle somewhere uncomfortably familiar. I glance around. “He’s not here now?” She doesn't answer. Just gestures to the basket. No, surely — I step closer. The clothes… shift. Not a trick of the light. Not imagined. Movement. They breathe. I peel back a hoodie. And there he is. A grown-ass man. Curled up. In a washing basket. Compact. Contain. Still somehow taking up all the space. He gives me a small, awkward wave. “…Oh.” A masterclass in underreaction. Phoebe drops the basket. “Yeah. Exactly.” “Nice place though,” I offer weakly, grasping for anything that isn’t the obvious. She lets out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. If you’re into cults, it’s lovely.” She gestures around her. Women in white. Bonnets. Silent clusters drifting like ghosts. Right. Of course. Why wouldn’t there be a cult? That feels about right for today. I want to say something helpful, something useful, something maternal, brave. But the words sit there, wedged between my teeth — cowardly, heavy, refusing to form into anything that might matter. So instead, I nod. Pathetic. “I hope it works out,” I say. And I leave. Guilt crunching under every step, louder than the gravel. Later that night — for reasons that stretch far beyond rationale — I find myself lurking outside Al’s house. The lights glow warm through the windows, soft and inviting, like they already know I’m coming in. The porch door is slightly open. It always is, in dreams like this. My hand moves before I can question it, sliding the door open just enough for me to slip inside, unnoticed. It’s… beautiful. Soft olive greens. Warm hues. A kind of calm that doesn’t belong to me. Artwork everywhere. His art. And there, above the fireplace. Me. Framed. Unavoidable. I frown. “Why that one?” “It’s the realest thing I’ve ever drawn.” His voice lands behind me. I turn. Al. In full pyjamas. Completely unbothered by the fact I’ve broken into his house. “But it’s so…” I start. “Honest,” he finishes. Silence settles. Heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just… undeniable. I look at it again. At her. At me. Small. Tired. Trying to disappear inside herself. And it hits. The knickers. The yard. The staring. The shame that wasn’t mine — but I carried anyway. Phoebe. Carrying someone who wouldn’t let her be alone. Shrinking to make room for him. Me. Carrying everything. Everyone. Quietly. Politely. Invisibly. Even Monkey saw it. Didn’t he? I let out a slow breath. “She looks like she’s trying not to take up space,” I say. Al nods. “She is,” he replies. “Just not very well.” I tilt my head. “Or maybe…” I murmur, softer now, “she’s just finally being seen.” The room shifts. Something settles into my bones — heavy, quiet, true. Because suddenly, I’m not sure which is worse — Being invisible. Or being seen exactly as I am. I wake up with that feeling still clinging. Like static. Like truth. Like something I can’t quite throw out into the yard and pretend was never mine to begin with.