He didn’t remember where it had come from. It was possible that it had been mixed with his at the cleaners and returned with his laundry. Maybe it had been left behind by someone, although he couldn’t remember ever seeing it on a date or a trick. What he did remember each time he pulled the soft, washed, faded cotton over his long arms—he met men to date when he had this shirt on. He got compliments about the color of his eyes in it. He felt confident in its embrace. It was powerful.
The thing barely held any color, but it wasn’t white. A hint of blue, perhaps a strange pattern that had been over-bleached? The buttons slid easily into their holes. The sleeves rolled up gently, pushed up easily, showed his tanned arms to perfection, highlighted his silver wristwatch.
Tucked or untucked, the power remained. Now, untucked over…
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wildeoats 