To be fair, the suitcase hadn’t exactly been in perfect condition when she decided to lend it to Paul. But it was still acceptable, functional. In good condition. And maybe part of the reason she had decided to lend this particular suitcase to Paul was precisely because it wasn’t one of her better options to let him borrow. Knowing Paul as she did, Sylvia was keenly aware that he wasn’t necessarily one to “keep care” of things. And all anybody needed to do to get that very obvious sense was step inside his apartment.

Paul was the type who thrived in chaos—clothes strewn everywhere, dirty dishes in the sink, empty takeout boxes of assorted cuisines tossed around like confetti. What such a snapshot of his existence added up to was that he couldn’t be trusted. In other words, that he wasn’t the sort of person one would want to entrust with anything considered “treasured.” Anything “held dear.” And this was something that Sylvia had long known about Paul, from the moment she first went over to his house in high school and saw his room for the first time. A room that, no matter how thoroughly Paul’s mother tried, could not be tamed. His father, of course, didn’t even bother to try; he was mostly absent from his family’s life because of his all-consuming profession: piloting commercial airplanes. Effectively putting his life at risk for most days out of the year, he ended up dying in a crash (the result of challenging such odds, being up in the air all the time) of his own making when Paul was seventeen.

After that, Sylvia wondered if Paul even more deliberately chose to embrace chaos, having experienced how cruel it can be as it whips its way arbitrarily through people’s lives. Even if, after that traumatic event, it didn’t really seem like Paul was affected. Oh sure, he loved his father, as many sons do (though Sylvia wouldn’t say most sons do), but Paul scarcely knew him. Viewed him primarily as a specter, an idea. There in theory, but not in practice. So maybe, in a way, the loss of his father—so “casually” and out of nowhere like that—only heightened Paul’s lack of an ability to care about things like other people did. Knowing full well that it was all so meaningless and ephemeral, how could he be bothered to care (in the same highfalutin and, ultimately, performative manner that other people did)?

This was what Sylvia had to remind herself of when Paul returned from his trip to Mexico. She didn’t ask for the suitcase back right away, waiting about a week to remind him that she wanted it. More to the point, needed it. For she was going on a three-day getaway to Palm Springs and it was the perfect size. Even if a little “rough around the edges.” Alas, when she went over to Paul’s to collect it, she could immediately tell that it had become much more so—rough around the edges, that is—in the month since he had left for Mexico, traveling around to places like Tulum, Mexico City and Cancún. Sylvia probably ought to have known better—considering all those stops—that the suitcase would be at risk, in harm’s way. And though she couldn’t immediately detect what was wrong with it, she knew there was something… It was just a matter of unearthing that something at the most inconvenient possible moment.

Though Paul was sure to tell her that the suitcase gave him no issues, that he would have happily kept it for himself if Sylvia ever wanted to “unburden” her collection of it at any point in the future. She should have known such effusiveness was a ruse. A red herring designed to throw her off the scent. And for a while there, she did forget that Paul might have tainted or tampered with the suitcase in such a way as to render it totally useless to her. In fact, right up until she got to the airport, she had no inkling whatsoever as to what could be wrong with it.

And then, right as she took the bag out of the trunk of the taxi, she understood the problem all too well. For, as she tried to extend the retractable handle, she realized it wouldn’t budge. Not one iota. Somehow, it had become permanently lodged in place—a flaw that hadn’t come to light until this very instant. And, flashing back to it all, she realized how she had been duped up until this point. Indeed, Paul had been very calculated in making sure she never noticed, handing the suitcase to her by its top handle and therefore ensuring the power of this “suggestion” would prompt her to keep carrying it that way due to its weightlessness (free of packed items as it was). Thus, she placed it in her trunk like that, without bothering to ever extend the handle.

Then, on the day of her flight, the driver was the one who dealt with lifting it and putting it into his trunk, apparently not thinking to mention to Sylvia that there was something wrong with it. Unless, of course, he didn’t notice either—perhaps so “burly” that he lifted it by its top handle as well, despite the weight of it. Whatever happened, the suitcase’s newfound defect went unnoticed by Sylvia until it was too late. And there was no turning back now. She would have to drag it along as cumbersomely as possible. All because Paul couldn’t just be straightforward with her about being the worst person ever to lend things to.

Cursing his name as she carried it with all the ease of moving a dead body, she decided she would confront him about it immediately rather than allowing herself to stew for the entire plane ride. So she paused outside the airport terminal and proceeded to text him a lengthy rant about his carelessness and overall shittiness as a friend, followed by a demand for any tout de suite tips on how to get the handle to emerge.

She waited about one minute in the hope of receiving a response, but one never arrived. Harumphing in irritation, she lugged the suitcase into the terminal, deciding she would shell out the seventy dollars to check it, even though she had been so painstaking and methodical in choosing just the right size and amount of liquid that would permit her to take the bag on board to put in one of the overhead compartments. Just another waste of time and energy, as it turned out.

Upon touching down in Palm Springs, Sylvia’s vexation flared up again when she remembered that she would have to wait at the baggage claim all because of Paul’s duplicity. Glancing at her phone for a message from him as she waited for the bag to roll out, her annoyance amplified all the more when she saw that he still hadn’t replied. What a fucking prick, she seethed to herself.

When the bag at last emerged, about thirty minutes later, Sylvia grudgingly collected it, lugged it out to the curb and got into yet another taxi bound for the Hotel Marilyn, named in honor of Monroe, naturally. It was a new boutique outfit that Sylvia had been meaning to check out in lieu of renting an Airbnb, as she usually did. This time, she had told herself, she would “mix it up.” Even though the reason she came to Palm Springs was always the same: to go to the spa, to lounge around—in short, to rest and recuperate from existence. If she happened to encounter a sexual dalliance somewhere along the way, well, that was just an added bonus.

The only person she had mentioned Hotel Marilyn to was Paul. Maybe that’s why, when the first “thing” she saw in her hotel room was him, she wasn’t all that surprised. Almost as if it was to be expected. Which is why, rather than gasping in shock or even appallment (or, in this case apPaullment), Sylvia could only calmly glare at him and declare, “You owe me seventy dollars plus a new suitcase.”

Paul shrugged. “I figured you’d say something like that. It’s partly why I’m here.”

“You mean you’re here in part to see how your social experiment went? What the fuck was with not telling me that you ruined arguably the most functional and essential part of my suitcase?”

He simpered. “I mean, technically, it was still working…for me. It was just being a bit temperamental. I didn’t think it would get wedged in there altogether. My mistake, I guess.”

Sylvia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s a fucking understatement.”

Right at that instant, as if responding to all the commentary surrounding it, the suitcase keeled over on its side.

Paul snickered as Sylvia stared daggers at him. It was a look that soon got him to shut up. He then approached the suitcase, propped it back up again and asked, “Mind if I give it a try? To prove my point?”

“Whatever Paul, it’s not like it matters now.”

And as she said that, Paul jimmied and jostled the handle, causing it to make a series of clicking noises that finally relinquished it from the interior’s grip. Paul looked from the freed handle to Sylvia. “See? Not broken. I’m officially not a shitty friend, as you so rudely accused.”

Sylvia had to laugh as she said, “Fuck you.”

Grinning, Paul returned, “Well, funny you should say that… Because that’s the other part of the reason I, uh, came.”

Sylvia arched her brow. It had been a while since Paul wanted to capitalize on their longstanding “friends-with-benefits-but-no-strings” arrangement. The last time they had been together “that way” was five years ago. In the time since, neither one had really been in a serious relationship, but, for whatever reason, they had both decided to “cool it” on having “friendship sex” together. Or what Paul sometimes referred to as “teeth-brushing sex”—of the sort that fulfilled an innate and inevitable human need. Ergo, such a request from him was more unexpected to Sylvia than his mere presence in her hotel room.

Taking a few seconds to process it, she replied, “Okay, but only if I can engage in the foreplay of watching you unpack for me.”

Paul nodded. “Seems fair.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” She proceeded to slowly take off what she was wearing and commanded, “Hand me my chemise and a thong from in there while you’re at it. Let’s get the foreplay done right.” Because, as it turned out, if you lend a careless person a suitcase, it might result in the unexpected fulfillment of some luggage kink.