̶ I went to a Vivienne Westwood show in London.
̶ That’s a hot ticket!
̶ How’d you get it?
̶ Kassia Ibarra. She’s a friend.
̶ Did you like the show?
̶ I did. Harris Tweed. In particular a bodice, cape and skirt on a ravishing redhead.
̶ I like Vivienne Westwood. I like her quirky originality.
̶ Yes, it’s refreshing.
Thursday you came home to find my birthday presents on your bed: an excess of Anglomania. Unable to decide what jacket to choose, I’d bought you three Vivienne Westwoods. I hoped you’d interpret it not as a sign of my insecurity but as a token of my knowing what would suit you: In charcoal and white, a pinstriped twill with an asymmetric hem and peaked lapels; in navy denim, a military jacket with a double-breasted placket and gold-striped cuffs; in black leather, a biker jacket with variable fastenings. You had the grace to interpret as haste my panicky indecision.
Friday you wore the charcoal-and-white pinstripe to work…
Thursday evening, at The Flask, we reminisced in laughter with Ariane and her Nicaraguan lover, moving on to share present news with equal good humour. In your new biker jacket, your white jeans and striped top, you were the coolest incarnation of chic: Was the black-and-white look your way of teaching me not to go over the top?
…and in the evening, at your surprise party at Gram’s, you were a hit in your military jacket and zip-pocket pants, your hair slicked back, braided ponytail wrapped into a bun: Was it you way of teaching me that one can pull anything off, provided the inner and the outer work in harmony?