The Opposite of Linen

I didn't like your cheap suits. Your highlights. Your roots. I didn't like your voice or your name. That accent grated. I didn't like your attitude. I didn't like the way you walked in or how you shucked off your coat. To put it simply, I didn't like you.

And I know not everyone dislikes you. Your spouse. Your kids. I assume they do. Whoever gave you that good job. But why do you find man made fibres so fitting? Who invented nylon, rayon, - made from polymers those great long chains of molecules.

I hated you for those. How they scuffed at the cuff and hem. I've never quite expressed how much. Now I want to say I loathed them. How you made blue sparks in the Parents' Race. How dry skin on fingers catches on you.

You're the opposite of linen. Barging through with your opinions. I wonder if you knew. I wonder if you're happy being you. Sitting in the window with those rows of foils bent with the tail of the comb.

Normally you can't sit still.

I think when you die they'll cremate you and you'll run away into nothing, shrivel, disappear like Susan's brown crimplene trousers did when she dropped a fag on them. Unravelling. Your urn empty.