My bare torso looks like a newborn alien. Minus the slime.

Maybe the light of the dressing room isn't helping, but all the same, staring at my half-naked self has sent the back of my mind into overdrive. Comparisons of evenly-tanned olive hourglass and pale blotchy blob (with yellow undertones). I swear my tummy sticks out as much as my child-boobs do. Black bras usually make me feel better about myself, something about it being practical yet sexy. These are pretty good, a smooth finish and natural shape, on top of being lightweight and decently priced (if you look at it in quid). Plus I've never owned the kind that clasps in the front, though I've read a lot involving these being sexy in um, certain situations.

It's been a while since I've faced the fact that I'm flat. A flat fact, haha. Add this to the new environment which bangs me around like the loose molecule I am, and pre-menstrual emotional instability...

I suddenly think about j. And that one night. It's disgusting, but also understandable (does it count if it's you understanding yourself?) how emotionally susceptible I am to touch. other than that everything's a joke, and I'm effectively immune to any form of romance, but-

an arm around me, my head on his muscled chest, him kissing my hair,
warm tongue in my ear, lips at my neck, fingers...and there goes another heart fracture.

Him and his-a part of me wishes I'd never picked it up, never read the label. Never, from then on, forever associate him with the brand (already an eye candy). Or with zipped-up hoodies with pockets, just the way I liked them. Just the way I liked him.

I'm standing in uniqlo remembering with heat in my face and holes in my heart, and I know what I'm looking for. And I find it.

But not in black.

I buy two anyway (thank you visa!), and huddling up in one on my borrowed bed, it's all pretence and a counterfeit glow. Faking home, faking love, and a hollow joy, coloured black.