The Only Clothes I Own

“You are the only clothes I own.”  I was becoming nakedly hysterical, the panic rising within me as I addressed my clothes.  “I need you all.”  They were everywhere, surrounding me.  A pair of trousers leant nonchalantly against the radiator, pyjamas lolled about on the bed, shoes looked up at me from the floor and rolled their eyes as I spoke.  My socks huddled together, leaning out of the top drawer of my dresser like office workers staring out at some drama in the street.  “What would I do without you?”  I was met with a stony silence.  I clutched at my hair, I stomped my feet and then I stopped, all too aware of my own ridiculousness.  I realised that there was no room for negotiation.  In my undressed state I could not command their respect, and they had made up their minds anyway.  “Please stay!” I screamed at them.

An hour later the taxi arrived.  I opened the door and looked up and down the street before stepping out.  The pavement was cold beneath my feet and the air felt fresh on my skin.  I opened the back door and threw in the suitcase containing all of my clothes ever, and then opened the passenger door and laid my duffel coat on the seat.  “There’s money in the pocket, take them wherever they want to go.”  I shut the door as the driver gawped at my prancing nudity and I was back inside the house before the taxi had pulled out of the drive.

There I was met with more glares from inanimate objects.  First the sofa, daring me to sit on it.  Then the table and chairs with their leggy threat to walk away at any moment.  The towering insouciance of the lampshade.  “You’re not going anywhere,” I told them.  But I was kidding myself, there were some fine sticks of furniture here, they’d find a new home easy enough.

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