Leather

I once had a boyfriend who thought I would look great in leather. He was into bondage, wanted a motorcycle – and me on the back. Tall, gangly, wore his pants too high. He always smelled the same from sweated chocolate powdered protein. He wanted to be a lot of different people. I never wore leather. I found it felt too familiar, the dead, beaten flesh. Not until I was sure I had stopped loving him, maybe a few months before, did I take out a pair of leather pants from my mother’s closet, from when she was young and punk and hip, and slip them over my thighs. I looked in the mirror then pulled them off, placing them neatly beneath our bed for later.