shorts
He had a thing for shorts. Not skimpy shorts or baggy things, but proper shorts, just above the knee, gray flannel or khaki especially. You can blame his African prep school. I have a couple of pairs of khaki shorts, and it seemed like every time I wore them, it disturbed his imagination. He’d say: If you keep on wearing those shorts, Casey will have to have the cane. Or, Those need cane marks so much it’s not even true! If I bent down to pick up the dog’s bowl, for instance, or fasten my shoe, sweep up some fur, he’d say: Oh, you can stay like that. Stay just as you are. Actually, he used to say that regardless of what I was wearing, or not wearing.
It’s hard to describe what it’s like to knock around the same house wearing things he would have fancied an awful lot and not have him here to say things.
Last weekend I ventured into a form of half-mourning with some dark-dyed jean shorts. Up until now, I’ve been wearing all black every day, with the exception of the grey suit I wore to a graduation this June. Here in Gotham, lots of people wear all black, so it doesn’t quite communicate what it might have in other times, but then I don’t wear it for other people. These dark blue short, however, felt…gaudy, even when paired with a black top and shoes. I can completely see the point of half-mourning, i.e. mixing greys and other dark tones in with the black for a half a year. After 14 months of all black, color feels alarming.
He would have liked these blue shorts, a lot. They would probably have made him want to take out a paddle, or a strap. Maybe, if worn up in the country, they would have made him want to take them down, and perhaps apply some switch cut from the yard, or just his hand.
I don’t really know. I won’t know. These days I’m no longer a temptation in shorts, but just a middle-aged woman slobbing around in clothes that are probably too young for her.
