by Alicia Millar
And again Jack asks, somewhat exasperated, "Why don't you wash that stain out, already? It's such a big ugly mark on the fabric," and again I explain that I've tried. At best, I've managed to fade it over time, using spot remover and strong detergent, but there it sits, for all to see. He then asks why I don't just throw the garment away - out with the old, in with the new, as they say...
But there's security in familiarity, a sense of trust in the knowledge I must mistrust. What if I forget about the day I cut my arm?
And anyway, I could never be sure to find another blouse just like it.
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