Woke

Woke

Nothing fits; nothing sits right or well or hangs off the body the way that he imagines. The two stare at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that rests and haunts just outside their shared bathroom door. She cocks her head with hope that the angle will serve to improve the perception. She sighs. Both arms flap and then hang somberly at his sides. He pulls at the sleeves and fiddles with the overall length of the shirt in back and in front. He lifts his arms over head to expose the flesh of his bare tummy. He doesn’t know or can’t decide if he’s fat. She cocks her head in the other direction and determines that it’s not that he’s fat. Being that it is that the entirety of his look constitutes the epitome of brand new, he huffs in confusion while she teasingly mocks with an assumption about their mother’s reaction to the general ill-fittedness of the ensemble.

He takes a step back and turns on himself to get a rear-view look. She laughs in what could assuredly be construed as unsympathetic. He sighs in agreement. Head hanging low, he asks for the time. Mom will arrive home in less than an hour. Maybe something of Dad’s will fit better. He shrugs as she runs off to their parent’s bedroom. He sighs again, rolls his head around on his neck in utter despondence at the thought that he, of all people, is destined to look like the fool who still doesn’t know how to dress himself. But the color, he decides, reflects the infantile nature of this predicament. He still cannot determine whether or not he actually cares at all or if he only cares because so many others care so much, too much. How such a thing could matter so intensely, so universally, is beyond him.

She appears seemingly from nowhere from the vantage point where he stands. Holding out one option, she drops the other few to the floor near his feet. Outfit one in tow, he drags himself into the bathroom to try it on. Upon first glance, she bursts into laughter at the unsightly sight of him. He rolls his eyes, scoops up the remaining items off the floor, asks her impatiently to stop laughing and disappears into the bathroom once again. She steps in front of the mirror to take inventory of herself. She is fat. Nothing ever fits her the way that she imagines stuff ought to. Diet comes to mind as she pinches various portions of skin on and around her body.

He appears dressed in a shirt that looks to fit on an appropriate level. Slumped, already defeated, he says nothing while making his way to the mirror. Lost within her own thoughts, she wonders aloud if she’s too fat. He turns with furrowed brows to look at the physical body of hers in front of him. Suggestively, he does not quell her delusion. Of course she’s too fat, he insists. They burst into laughter. He calls her an idiot.

The next immediate course of action is to figure out if the pants match the shirt. Everything fits alright, but nothing really goes together to create a sense of style or look or personality, he suggests. She’s taken aback at his attention to such sartorial matters. She asks why it matters so much or at all. He shrugs then extrapolates that he thinks that other people care a lot, and so, now he’s forced to care, and it all seems like a big prank or joke to make him or everyone look stupid all the time when clothes, as he sees it, don’t matter in the sense of like fashion or what have you. Coolly, she responds in agreement, and they abandon the clothes altogether in a heap on the floor, strewn about in the hallway and bathroom.