QHO-0004: Cashmere

Men’s charcoal grey, size M. Italian cashmere. Worn soft at the elbows. A single thread, near the hem, tugged loose and tucked back in. Still carries the scent of someone else: Bergamot, cedar, maybe the trace of skin after a shower.

Diary entry:

Monday, February 7th, 2000.

He left in a hurry, already late for the train, hair still damp from the shower. I didn’t say a word. I just kissed him and watched him go.

When I came back in, the flat felt impossibly quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens after something lovely has left. I tidied up absently, rinsing mugs, turning off the record player we’d forgotten was still spinning, straightening the bed.

And then I saw it. His sweater, draped over the chest of drawers. Charcoal grey, cashmere, worn soft at the elbows. I don’t know if he left it on purpose. It’s the sort of thing you forget when you’re distracted by morning kisses and leaving and trying not to look too sentimental.

I picked it up and held it to my face. Bergamot, cedar, and something else, something warmer. Him. I didn’t put it away or fold it or hang it or spritz it with anything. I got back into bed and held it to my chest. For the first time in a long time, I dozed all morning, dreaming he was still there. That if I turned over, I’d find him, warm and breathing beside me.

He’s not, but the sweater is. And after our first weekend together, that’s enough.