June 15, 2008

Saturday, June 15, 2008

A few weeks ago I walked out of a man’s apartment as early as four am in the morning with a bag of personal belongings and a belated new found sense of self-respect. Amidst the personal items and scattered memories of an all unfamiliar word dignity, there was a gray man’s cotton t-shirt that I had stolen from the man’s apartment.

I was a thief. A thief for men’s worn cotton t-shirts in the middle of the night.

To this moment that I am typing away the very words on my computer, I wonder if the man has thought of the shirt in the weeks that had gone by. The man has clearly not been thinking of me. This much I know is true. But what about the missing t-shirt? Does he care?

I wondered if it was his favorite t-shirt.
Perhaps he had wondered if the house had been broken in.
The thief wanted nothing but gray t-shirts. Gray worn men’s t-shirts.

You could argue that the thief wanted more than anything else but his heart.

To which I could never tell you the truth.