-She’s wearing the same grey shirt she left your apartment with. You smile. It looks good on her, your grey shirt. More than a bit on the large side, but you want it to look good on her. You want to imagine that there’s a reason it looks good on her, that it’s more than the simple fact that to you, in that moment, and for quite a while now, everything looks good on her. It’s her. Not what she wears, but in that moment, as she walks in wearing your grey shirt, you want to believe that the universe conspires with the flurry of emotion that has stormed your imagination, sending a physiological response through you, not unlike that incited by eating copious amounts of chocolate. And so you imagine it is not just her, but something about the shirt and the fact that it was yours, and now it is on her. You also imagine that time has collapsed and that it was just yesterday she left your apartment, or if not yesterday, a couple of days ago. But the truth is, at this point, she has probably forgotten whose grey shirt she’s wearing. It’s been a while, and that fanciful flurry is haunting. As she walks in, the sun refracts at odd angles and blinds you. Then you realize it’s not her.
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