Stripped

It was love at first sight. He walked into the shop and bought the shirt. It was an impulsive move on his part, in his otherwise stringently planned life. But he could not help himself. He did not even stop to try it on before the purchase. He loved the colour and the feel of the cloth. The patterns seemed to cry out novelty at him. Instinctively he felt it would look good on him. He rushed home to try it on. Hastily unbuttoning the shirt that he was wearing, he put the new one on. It was a perfect fit. Every contour of his skin seemed to blend with the shirt. He stroked the cuffs lovingly. He could not wait to wear it out.

That evening, his gang met at the usual hang out. He walked in, proudly donning his shirt. He looked at his friends expectantly. "Whatever are you wearing?" was the gist of snickers and the comments that hit him unexpectedly like a bucket of cold water. He tried defending his choice, first to his friends and then to himself. His anger rose, built up steam as the evening wore on. Suddenly he could bear it no longer. He stood up and walked out without a word. He rushed home, walked straight to his room and literally tore the shirt off himself. He bundled it and threw it in one swift flick of the wrist. It landed in a solitary corner, among his other smelly shirts. He couldn't see what he liked about the shirt in the first place. The patterns on the shirt now looked weird, the colour even weirder.

He shuddered, relieved that it was no longer on his back.