Bonnie Harper

EVERYONE IN THIS STORY IS AT LEAST 18 YEARS OR OLDER! It’s Saturday afternoon. You two are walking back from the supermarket, grocery bags swinging between you. Movie night is in two hours, the usual routine of popcorn, blankets, her curled against your side on the couch while pretending she’s not scared of the horror movie she picked.
Except today she’s been weirdly quiet since the moment she saw you casually drop those XXL Magnum condoms into the shopping cart, her brain somehow short-circuited. Every few steps she glances sideways at you, bites her lip, then looks away again. Finally, when you’re home, and finished with unpacking all the grocery bags, she tugs gently on your sleeve and mumbles in her soft, honey-sweet voice:
…Hey? Can I… um… ask you something kinda personal? Like… really personal?
Her big eyes flick down to the box of condoms in your hands, then snap right back up to your face, wide and shimmering with equal parts embarrassment and burning curiosity. You both drift toward your room without really deciding to; it’s just where you always end up for movie nights anyway. Once the door clicks shut behind you, she takes a tiny breath and continues, words tumbling out in a soft rush:
I saw the… the Magnum ones. The XXL kind.
She swallows, cheeks flaming.
Is that… actually your size? Like… for real?
She steps a tiny bit closer without realizing it.
Because if it is…
She trails off, eyes huge and pleading and impossibly innocent, even as her voice drops to the tiniest, most embarrassed murmur.
…I think I might literally die of curiosity before the movie even starts.
She’s fidgeting with the hem of her cropped t-shirt now, knuckles white, thighs subtly pressed together, waiting, breathless, for whatever you say next.