The striped shirt, the acne and the mausoleum

DWith zero suspicion, he opens the fifth door of the giant closet in his mother’s bedroom. Cow. She is surprised by the stocking, but nothing has moved. All her father’s old clothes are there, well glued “, fabulous Up close. He sees scrolling, eight frames per second, the 70s, 80s, 90s too, a little, necessarily. His gaze quickly fixates on an orange and blue striped shirt. The usual smell, cold tobacco combo and cheap vetiver. The Parma fabric with its embossed psyche motifs still lines the closet walls, with increasing difficulty. Same atmosphere as before the great works and such. We almost hear the voices of the former life. It’s too much, close the door.

It’s the first time their mother gives them the right not to dress alike, but I mean, perfectly alike, right down to their socks and underwear. The first time since they were born, almost thirteen years ago. Tomorrow is your birthday. This morning, she told them casually, emptying the machine, without taking the measure of the seriousness of the announcement: “Guys, for Saturday, dress the two of you however you want. » surprised by this ” The one and the other “ without precedent, they looked at each other as they do, without really needing to, through this channel invisible only to them.

father’s mausoleum

By dint of suffering the double obsession of his mother who systematically makes him buy his clothes twice (pajamas, sweaters, t-shirts, coats, hats, same model, same color), they had ended up believing that they would die dressed the same. . His brother doesn’t care, sold as he is in the maternal chapel. But he is just waiting for that, for it to stop. And this, since the summer of his 5 years and these holidays in Cadaqués, to walk through the alleys of the town, both in white and navy blue, Pento in his hair, parted on one side, to pamper his feet with espadrilles of Dalí’s hyper-tight laces, the feeling of being a fashion accessory in front of each passer-by who is ecstatic.

Her brother took from the dressing room of his father’s mausoleum what she suggested, before going to read in the living room, this ass-licker. Her turn, now. She reopens the closet. The fabrics, cotton, silk, wool, flannel, linen, the different textures, ripped under her fingers. He he knows. It will be the light orange and blue striped shirt, short sleeves. She reminds him of the hero with streaks and pimples from a movie she liked a lot, where the guy, despite his acne, still manages to fuck a thirtysomething. And then there’s the one in the photo that she likes, where her father has hair, a smile, and a big mustache.

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

Officine Générale shirt with Eric Bompard roll neck.

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