Sweater

Yesterday I wore my favorite black sweater. The last person to wear it was my ex-boyfriend. It smelled like skin and spices, not exactly the way I remember him smelling, and definitely not the way I smell. For some reason I didn’t spray on cologne before I left for work.

All day I felt strangely disoriented, disconnected, like I was someone else. I’m a particularly olfactory person. I notice scents first and they leave very strong impressions on me, so it was odd having a different one. I felt like people wouldn’t recognize me. They would look at me distrustfully, like I was trying to fool them in some way. Dogs would bark and cats would hiss when I walked by. Friends would look at me and say, “There’s something different about you. Did you change your hair?”

I felt like I had license to do things I wouldn’t normally do, like go to a bar alone and strike up a conversation with a complete stranger.

“I’m Simon,” I’d say. “I’m in town looking for my mom. She ran out on my dad and me when I was really little. She sent me a postcard a few years ago from an address in Brooklyn. I’m trying to track her down.”

People wouldn’t remember anything I did or said. They would see me the next day and say, “I think I dreamt about you last night.” Any interactions we had would be like afterimages, sunspots, things you can’t really grasp.

When I came home, I took off all of my clothes except the sweater and got into bed. I slid my hands down and started touching myself. But my skin felt strange, like it wasn’t mine. It was someone else, someone I wanted to be close to. I wanted to curl up next to myself and feel the warmth it gave off. I wanted to crawl inside where it was safe.

I fell asleep in that sweater.