David’s belt was a strong belt. It had been woven by a boy in Taiwan, working long hours through the day. He was an expert weaver, having many hundreds of hours’ experience under his hands, and the belt was tightly-knit and ready for anything.
When David first donned the black belt, it was too long. He had spent so long trying to find the right belt, though, that he was not deterred. He cut off the end, held a lighter to the edge to fuse it, then tried it again; it fit much better. He tightened the metal piece to hold the belt in place, and didn’t think of it for the rest of the day.
The belt held David’s pants on his hips. He thought of it twice a day – once in the morning, once at night. Occasionally, midway through the day, he would be reminded of the tool to hold his pants up, but even then, it was a passing thought. Mostly, he ignored it.
The day it gave out, however, was the worst day to do so.
The threads had grown weaker and weaker. David saw this, but ignored it.
David’s body grew wider and wider. He also ignored this.
But he continued to tighten the belt to the same point. His hips had a strange divot, and his belt had a permanent strain.
But one day, the fibers gave way, the belt broke, and as David stood in front of his boss, a lack of laundry causing him to show off his rattiest underwear, his face flushed, his eyes teared up, and he tried to run from the room only to trip over the cloth around his feet. He lay on the floor as the room cleared, and his boss stood looking down, shaking his head in disdain.
David cleared his desk the next day, hitching his pants up every few seconds.