My left hand is stuffed into my front jacket pocket, like Napoleon suffering from some kind of cold-active gout. For some reason the action causes me to sit up straight, and I feel as if I am riding a horse. My jacket is nine years old, a relic; worn because it is convenient (my most convenient) for bicycling.

I fiddle with the right pocket zipper at stoplights, but it’s stuck fast. Aside from the stuck zipper, there’s really nothing else wrong with the jacket. I’ve owned it since grade eight, and my thirteen-year-old self would be glad to know that Ripzone is such a good brand. It’s the last piece of clothing from that company I own, the second-last being an old t-shirt frayed everywhere but the collar, which is what I wore it for. It’s a look that’s in, but not when the rest of the shirt is in rags. At least, that’s what Lisa might have told me before she threw it out, though I’m positive she never qualified such a statement with a remark about how it could have at all, ever, been considered fashionable.

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