I inherited (read: never returned) a pair of black, fingerless gloves from this guy I dated for a month last winter. It wasn’t, and was never going to be, serious, which I think he and I both knew because after I stopped calling or texting him, he never tried to find out where I had gone.
I had borrowed the gloves one afternoon when we met for lunch on Newbury Street. Sushi. I beat him to the area, and he lived close enough to still be at home when I arrived and realized how much colder I was than I had thought I’d be, so I asked him to bring me some gloves and he did. Black, fingerless, and probably some name brand of sorts. He was that kind of gay. All I cared about was that my hands were warm, the gloves were soft, and they were well worn, so I accidentally on purpose didn’t return them that afternoon, and he never mentioned the gloves again, and I never offered to return them.
But these gloves seem to have a life of their own. I am always losing them. Not just one. I’d understand misplacing one glove. But I’m always misplacing both of the gloves, and then I look for them and only days later do I find the gloves in the least likely of places. Tonight, the gloves, having been missing for more than a week, were found inside a pair of pajama pants I haven’t even worn this winter. Not sure how the gloves got there. I think they have their own adventures, which makes sense, since they go unused and unloved for seven or eight months out of the year.
Bon voyage, I will say to these gloves in a couple of months, when I put them in my sock drawer (which is where gloves should go, right?), and I will hope that they will be waiting for me next winter, when the time comes to put them on and take them out.