God the nerve, the shear front. Displaying themselves, bang center, in Oxfam’s window. Smiling cute in pretense of fluffy innocence. At least they never can hide my screams of the dead-weight, scuffed down their sides. Its my fault really, gave them to the poor Winnfield’s, they were expecting only two weeks after me. I should’ve burned them when the notion raged. Rush in I tell myself, buy them back. But my soles rooted like concrete, with fingernails digging through my palms. Hands flash, the damn things are bagged and another couple are out the door.
Slumped, I’ll await their return.
