There’s a winter coat I like, covet. But I can’t afford it right now. So every other day I keep going to the Website to look at it. It’s mildly pornographic the way I sneak a peek when no one else is looking, gloating over the coat I long to drape over my shoulders.
It’s lined with a thick warm fleece. I just know it will be warm. And so I keep going back like a ghost to his grave or a dog to his bone.
I wonder why I do this? Is it some hidden Freudian thing? Or am I working some sympathetic magic the same way early man drew animals he wished to hunt and catch on a cave wall?
Sometimes I stare hard at it and whisper, “You Will Be Mine.”
Nothing visibly happens to the coat. It doesn’t miraculously jump into the shopping cart.
I leave it alone for a few days. Return. Try my same old magic on it.
So I walk about in my old coat and feel depressed. Partly because I’m getting obsessed and partly because I’m becoming a materialist with sweaty palms.
I dream of the sound of snap-closures.
It’s no use checking my checking account. I know the story: Empty is as empty does.
I get that itch the most at night. When I’m alone. Sidetracked. Or needing a distraction from the writing.
Just a quick peek, I think. Where’s the harm in that? It’s not as if that sentence I just wrote is going anywhere.
The coat is still there. It’s image, anyway. And how I long for the actual one to be on my coat rack. My winter scarf draping from it. The light above the rack shinning down on it like a blessing.
My tea gets cold. The moth at the window batters itself over and over again. I wonder how much dust it loses from its wings? Will it fly again? Will it want to?
It’s getting colder out. November is brushing up on its icy syllables. That poor moth is going to expire.
That damn coat had better be mine before the snow flies!