My Shirt

My shirt is soft, in a strange, too-smooth kind of way. It feels like satin and cotton woven together, into a kind of muted glass, allowing me to glide my hand along with ease. The undershirt feels like simple cotton that has been washed too many times, and is now a little bit rough, and a little stiff, with it’s ridges running vertically.

Taken together, I don’t know what to make of it. The undershirt, clearly, is felt most, but I don’t really notice it through the day. It covers more of my torso, but the roughness, it doesn’t really register.

The overshirt, however, I feel ever brush of it. It’s so soft, so smooth, it’s like chocolate in my mouth. If the undershirt is an American Nestle bar, this is the work of a Belgian chocolatier on a side street in a little town outside of Brussels. It just melts over the skin, and all I can do all day is shift in my seat so that I feel it slide a little bit on my arm.

My workmates are starting to complain about the smell, unfortunately, so I’ll have to find a second one to wear next month.

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