Crisp White Awful

Showered and clean and dripping. He used a new soap, something with lotion, something that kept his skin breathing and soft. There was green tea in his shampoo, his conditioner, the scent of green tea stayed with him. Freshness, wisdom, clarity. He took time with the part in his hair, fixing it and fixing it, delicately. And when it was perfect he took the brush, the wood-handled one hundred dollar brush, and brought the hairs back and to the side. He used pomade, scooped it with his fingers, rubbed it with his palms, eased it through the follicles and reapplied the comb and brush. Toothpaste, floss, wash, rinse. Stinging mint and alcohol, germ-killing twinge and cool inhales. He had underwear that made him feel attractive, socks that stayed up. A sturdy pair of jeans that caught the light and gave a flash of deep indigo brilliance. He had a crisp, new, white shirt. A shirt that fit him. A clean white shirt, one that made him feel cleaner for putting it on. And he did, slowly, sliding his arms in, caressing every button, smoothing the front and sleeves and sides. Ah, yes.

But wait. Something was wrong. Up there, do you see it? There on the tip of the right collar. A spot. Some awful, off-white, almost-yellow, small-but-terrible, soul-crushing kind of spot. It undid his entire morning. It was all he could feel. He must destroy it.

He ran, ran, to the bathroom. He got a towel and applied soap on soap on soap, water cold and water hot. He scrubbed, he dabbed, he cleaned and he cleaned. He had to get rid of it. It couldn't be there. It would wreck the shirt and the day and he could not allow that to happen. So he worked, and he worked, and he worked.

After he was done the spot was gone. It was white again. But the fabric was worn, the cotton had been bruised. And the right corner of the shirt curved in and under. He ironed and ironed, but it would not be flat. It would be curved, there, forever, to remind him of what he'd done.