The striped shirt, the acne and the mausoleum

D.Without any suspicion, he opens the fifth door of the colossus’s closet in his mother’s bedroom. The cow. She surprises him on average, but nothing has moved. All his old father’s clothes are there, firmly glued, “ fabulous “up close. He sees scrolling, eight images per second, the 70s, 80s, 90s even, a little, necessarily. His gaze quickly captures a striped shirt, orange and blue. The smell of the combination always , cold tobacco and cheap vetiver. The Parma fabric with its psychic motifs in relief still lines the walls of the wardrobe, with increasing difficulty. Same atmosphere as before the great works and the rest. We almost hear the voices of life before It’s too much, she closes the door.

This is the first time their mother has given them the right not to dress alike – but I mean, perfectly alike, down to their socks and underpants. The first time since they were born, almost thirteen years ago. Tomorrow is their birthday. This morning he casually told them, emptying the car, without taking the measure of the severity of the announcement: “Guys, for Saturday you both dress how you want. ” Shocked by this “one and the other” unprecedented, they looked at each other as they do, without really needing to, through this invisible channel only to them.

The Mausoleum of the Father

By dint of undergoing the twin fashion of their mother who systematically makes her buy clothes twice (pajamas, sweaters, t-shirts, coats, hats, same model, same color), they ended up believing that they would die dressed the same. The brother does not care, sold out as it is in the maternal chapel. But she’s just waiting for this to stop. And this, from the summer of their 5 years and these holidays in Cadaqués, to be worn around the alleys of the town, both in a white and navy blue sailor jacket, Pento in the hair, parted on the side, to cuddle the feet to The fault of Dali’s hyper-tight laced espadrilles, the feeling of being a fashion accessory in front of every passer-by who goes into raptures.

Her brother took from the dressing room of his father’s mausoleum what she had suggested to him, before going off to read in the living room, this ass licker. She now she is up to him. She reopens the wardrobe. The fabrics, cotton, silk, wool, flannel, linen, the different textures, torn under the fingers. He knows. It will be the orange and blue striped shirt, short sleeves. She reminds him of the hero with the wick and pimples from a movie he really liked, where the guy, despite acne, still manages to fuck a 30-year-old. Besides, it’s the one in the photo that he likes, where his dad has hair, a smile and a big mustache.

She tries it with elegant trousers, too long, but maybe her mother knows how to hem them. The fabric refined by time, almost paper, is fresh. His mother enters. And shut up, for once. She stands in front of him. She looks very small. She replaces the shirt collar that she didn’t really need it. To her left, her wedding ring shines brighter than usual, with a hazy light that says too much. He looks into her eyes, better seen than in the mirror on the closet door, praying that tomorrow’s scratches will make us forget the pimples that ravage his forehead.

Officine Générale sweater and Eric Bompard turtleneck.

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