The Mate

I live in a world of gloves. The collection’s a compulsion, the result’s eccentric. I don’t care. There’s no one to see it anyway, no one to judge. I’d call it art if they asked. They’d wander along the colored pairs, yellow rubber, green suede, heavy brown leather, and they’d come upon the single gray glove. What’s that, they’d ask, where’s it’s mate?

What a question! So heart-wrenching, if hypothetical. What a question. I might consider not answering. The silence would stretch long enough to be uncomfortable and they’d shift, shuffling their feet and say, It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.

But I’d clear my throat and sigh, shaking my head so they knew the full weight of my pain. That’s the one that got away, I’d say. That’s the mate I couldn’t find.

They’d nod, understanding, their eyes averted out of respect. We’d bond in that moment of intimate pain because they’d understand why I couldn’t just go out and buy another one.

But then, of course, no will ever see this. No one will ever ask.