Fitting
The Dove

I look at the blue shirt in my hands, letting the blue silk slide over my fingers. Pursing my lips together I run a hand along the stubble on my jaw line. I put the shirt back waveringly, wondering what it would feel like on my skin. It wasn't me, though.

Walking between the racks, many different types of fabric rub against the dirty leather of my jacket. Nothing is ever me in this place. The powers won't allow it, and neither shall I. Perhaps if I liked something I could wear it. My shoulders slump as I remember. I don't like anything.

My lady brings me gifts sometimes, if only to torture my mind in ways I never thought possible. She brings rare books and baubels that seem to have a hidden meaning. There is no love behind her gifts, only a kinship.

I suppose I'm breaking her rule, of not thinking of her when she's gone. But I am careful not to think the name for fear that sheÊmay hear my thoughts as well as my soul.

Turning I weave in and out of the shoppers and am careful not to touch anyone. I'm afraid that I may dirty them. The rows of shops seem empty now, as I walk past them with merely a glance. I know what suites me, and nothing that resides in there will.

Then I see her, my lady, leaning on a salesrack, next to a gray shirt. It has no distinguishing mark on it, beside's a breast pocket. I walk up to Lilah and nod my head. She smiles lazily, the bloodred of her lips forming into a haunting gash. I grab the shirt off the rack.

As I walk away I smile, thinking about the shirt that will finally fit.

Wesley. Shirt. Melancholy.