A woman is walking down a deserted corridor. White walls, white linoleum floors, fluorescent lights; a hospital maybe. Outside, it is dark and her reflection bounces off windows as she goes past them. She is dressed casually, a bright pink thigh-length fitted puffy down coat over jeans.
The woman stares at the floor. She seems lost in her thoughts. We only sees her profile.
She blinks. She reaches down for her bag.
WOMAN, at her coat: baby, why are you so dirty?
She grabs the coat between her index finger and thumb. She rubs her palm over a portion of the coat. She frowns. She looks at other section of the coat and frowns some more. She is still walking, albeit at a slower pace.
WOMAN: why am I talking to my coat?
Another woman appears, walking in the opposite direction. The woman in the puffy coat looks at her, then at the floor, then at her again and smiles. The passerby returns a polite smile. They walk past each other. We do not know whether they are acquainted.
I have a problem with puffy down-filled jackets. Something tied to Fall of sixth grade when my mother bought me a pine green butt-length puffy coat with brown faux-fur around the hood and red lettering across the chest. I looked like a freakin’ christmas tree for three straight winters. I hated that coat. It took 28 years, an upcoming trip to the snow, and dear C’s endless love to buy a puffy coat. At least it’s not black nor shiny nor loose, so I don’t look like Mary Kate Olsen wearing an oversized trash bag. But I spit little white feathers at random and can’t help feeling like the Michelin man’s third cousin who fell in a vat of pink paint when she was little.
I have a problem with puffy down-filled jackets. I take it very seriously. I talk about my feelings. In the workplace. With an inanimate object.
“Do not take life too seriously. You will never get out of it alive.”
~ Elbert Hubbard