A Change of Clothes

Widows are beautiful, he thought. So covered in need they shimmered. This was his third. She lay under a sheet, which had a hole burnt into it earlier from a pot seed exploded from a joint. The size of a lizard’s eye. His suits suit you, she said. A little tight in the shoulders, but not so bad. Her cat rubbed against him, as if nothing had changed. He turned this way and that in the long mirror. Reached for a silk suit on a hanger. She rolled another, using a credit card to separate the seeds out this time.

Photo credit: Lourenço Tomás