Sometimes, when I put my clothes away, I imagine them having a little talk.
A chat about where they’ve been, what they saw, what they did.
Since they get trotted out for different events – usually food related – I imagine my garments to have gleaned quite the repertoire for the gastronomic. And afterwards, post soiree, they are returned to the robe, resplendent with tales of their travels.
To be what they are.
Totally uncultured gossips.
I imagine them, whispering conspiratorially.
“Where have you been? What did you do?
Oh my gosh did you? And she was there too?
She wore you with what? Wow, you get out a lot!
She never wears me there, she thinks I’m too hot.
Did you taxi or bus? Or did you take the train?
Did you see poor Laboutin – she left his heel in the drain.
I see you tried the the crab cakes… there’s a bit on your neck.
Oh, it’s seared chicken livers, with cream sauce and Triple Sec?
Last time we went out, we took black wool pants
they got sat on all night, they had not a chance
the button – popped – blame Fromager d’Affinois
it had nothing to do with dancing on the bar!
Oh -Red dress is sulking. She doesn’t get out.
and poor linen jacket copped a greased Brussels sprout-
She must love you a lot – you got the padded hanger.
They’re usually reserved for items of glamour...”
And so it goes.
More often than not, it takes me to the next morning to return my clothes to the robe.
There are shoes to be shelved, underwear to toss to the basket. The discarded, unworn reject pile to be mollified and maintained.
And as I hang, fold and slide, I make sure sure to give a little smooth to the errant sleeve or collar. Slip them back to their rightful place in queue of conspiracy, ready for their little chats.
As I turn away, from the corner of my eye, I spy my make up brushes peeping out from my cosmetic case. And I wonder…