Clothes from the men's section remind me of the cozy feeling of wearing something forbidden. Of the time I sneaked out wearing your long, warm sweater because last night's dress smelled like smoke. Both of us knew that the best morning cigarette is enjoyed far away from those clothes impregnated with cheap brandy and tobacco. So I put it aside, far away from the smell of your new sweater that, let's face it, never really suited you.
And then I left some traces of ash on your front door just as a discrete reminder of last night. Because I knew you wouldn't clean it up and I'll find it there the next time. Next to the cheap mayonnaise can that I used instead of an ashtray. Or maybe some other girl would find it and wonder who smoked in front of your door.
Everybody looks down on us when we take the subway with traces of last night's lipstick in the corner of our mouths. They call it the walk of shame. I always hated this term.
If there is anything shameful, then it's spending your evening at home, wondering what would have happened if you would have lived a little. If anything can be called shameful, then it's spending your life watching TV shows because you've given up on your own life.
I love wearing men's clothes. I adore stealing them.