she said.
“Not tight in the shoulders?” she said.
He kept looking at her forehead, as if focusing on a mole.
There was no mole.
“Can you do all the buttons?” she said.
He remained immobile. She made a tentative move to button up the jacket.
He shuddered and pulled away, just an inch or so, a jerk of a movement.
“Okay, we don’t want to button it up, I guess.” she said.
He gingerly slides his right hand in the pocket of the jacket.
In no response to anything, an almost random occurrence.
He feels around inside, the lining is made of polyester.
His index finger locates a hole, where the stitching gave way to discontinuation.
He balls his fingers up in a fist, the nails cutting into his palm.
Releasing them is not an option.
Not for now.
It’s a small space — his — no vistas beyond the wardrobe,
private opinions often don’t make it across the kitchen counter.
Compact is a bliss and faded is comfort,
with his bare feet on the snap-lock wood flooring
no unwanted noise can breach the 217-square-feet
of his prefab life.
Perhaps he needs a cardigan instead of the jacket.
“Perhaps I need a cardigan instead of this jacket,” he said.
Will the hole in the polyester lining grow bigger?
Will it envelope him? Will that be very discomforting?
He pulled his hand out of the right hand side pocket,
the skin shiny, covered in sweat.
“S’okay,” she said,
“you don’t want to button up that jacket.”
