it really is a fucking panty roundtable

"Man, it really is a fucking panty roundtable," Josh murmurs, reaching out toward the bag.
"No!" I say, slapping his hand. "The panties stay in the bag- that is the one condition of the Round Table. Got it?"
He folds his hands primly in his lap, sighing. "Fine. So, for the edification of the court, would you care to review the facts of the case?"
"I found Ms. Chicago practically hanging out in Mrs. X's bed four months ago, and then, all of a sudden, I received a letter at my home-"
"Exhibit A," Sarah says, waving the letter.
"Which means she knows where I live! She's hunted me down! Is there nowhere for me to hide?"
"It's so over the line," Sarah confirms.
"Oh, does Nan have a line?" Josh asks.
"Yes! I have a line. It's drawn right across Eighty-sixth Street. They cannot come to my home!" I feel myself starting to get hysterical. "I have a thesis paper to write! Exams to take! A job to find! What I do not have-is time. I cannot be running around NYU with Mr. X's mistress's underwear in my bag. I cannot be juggling their secrets on a full course load!"
"Nan, look," Sarah says gently, reaching around the table to put her hand on my back. "You still have power here. Disengage. Just give it all back and call it a day."
"Give it all back to who?" I ask.
"To the skank," Josh says. "Mail that shit back to her and let her know you don't want to play."
"But what about Mrs. X? If this all comes out and she finds out I had the panties and didn't tell her-"
"What's she gonna do? Kill you?" Sarah asks. "Put you in jail for the rest of your life?" She holds up her glass. "Send 'em back and quit."
"I can't quit. I don't have time to look for another job and my Real Job-at whatever school I can convince to hire me-won't start till September. Besides"-I open the bag of cheese poofs, finished with my bout of self-pity-"I just can't leave Grayer."
"You're gonna be leaving him at some point," Josh reminds me.
"Yeah, but if I want to stay in his life I can't end on bad terms with her," I say. "But you're right. I'll send this stuff back."
"And look, that only took us twenty minutes," Sarah says. "Which still leaves ten minutes for you to run my orgo flashcards with me."
"The fun never stops," I say.
Josh leans over to give me a hug. "Don't sweat it, Nan, you'll be fine. Hey-let's not overlook the fact that you guessed Ms. Chicago's panties would be black lace thongs, like, months before we found 'em. That's gotta be a marketable skill."
I empty my glass. "Well, if you know a game show on which I can turn that into ready cash, lemme know."
I survey the disheveled piles of books, highlighted photocopies, and empty pizza boxes strewn all over my room that I've accumulated since I got home from work Friday. It's four A.M. and I've been writing for forty-eight straight hours, which is significantly less time for my thesis than I allotted myself. But, short of leaving Grayer to care for himself in the apartment, I didn't really have a choice.
I glance over at the brown manila envelope that's been resting against my printer since The Panty Roundtable a week ago. Taped and stamped, it only remains to be ceremoniously deposited in a mailbox after I deliver my thesis in four hours. Then Ms. Chicago and NYU will be well on their way to becoming a distant memory.