More Shirt Stories

I spent perhaps twenty minutes observing a corpulent fellow straining the seams of his satiny white shirt. It was wrinkle-free but he was not. And I suppose it was drip-dry, too, but he was sweating more than a boil-in-the-bag meal. It reminded me of a pale dust sheet slung over an overstuffed armchair in an empty room, billowing and bunching every time the man moved, as if animated by some unsteady specter that hadn't learned how to haunt properly. Randomly, I thought of Satie's Gnossiennes played on a tuba.

Comments

[Lloyd Mintern]

Then what did you do?

[stephenesque]

Not very much, I'm afraid. I'm lazy by nature.

[Lloyd Mintern]

Glad to hear that.