There were holes. All over the bottom end of it - glaring holes, neatly shaped holes, holes that had stretched themselves out in no particular pattern. They varied in age and occurrence. Some found themselves there through no particular reason but age, another was a rusty nail, another, a clumsy case of passing by the bedroom door and found herself hooked to it followed by the small scratching sound of something tearing through cloth. These holes very well, could have been, a sort of primitive record of minor and some major events over the course of twelve years. That hole for instance that had shown up after a dog - as dogs usually do when they see a moving bicycle - had chased her for three kilometers. Her tired legs registering the dog’s eventual withdrawal, had missed the pedal. This slight misbalance had sent both herself and the bicycle crashing to the road. The t-shirt registered the event.
That this t-shirt had survived twelve years, was a compliment to her loyalty, and her discipline. It meant that in twelve years, she hadn’t gained or lost weight. and if either had occurred, it had been negligible. Her family called it the ‘tattoo’. As such, there were photographs of it, featured at events of all nature. It fitted the way it always had - neatly - dropping right above her hip the way she wore her clothes. The red colour was worn. It looked like something sandpaper had had a go at.
For all its age, it still smelled of lilacs, whatever that smelled like. The laundry detergent advertisement said ‘lilac scent’. There were no lilacs in her part of the world so she proceeded on the confidence that the manufacturers knew what they were talking about.
Colours always had a smell though. She had always felt this.
All her colours smelled of lilac now, though she thought the smell varied slightly, depending on the t-shirt. It was like perfume on people she reasoned.