I find the clothing you gave me everywhere, R. It envelops my body, contains my feet and when I go to pay, it’s the leather wallet. In winter, shoes; in summer, trousers; when I pull out the coat I rarely wear, a shirt appears hung underneath it. Perhaps you don’t even remember all these things that embrace me, that were “ours.” When you were out of work, I worried about you impulsively buying things you thought would please me. Despite that, I accepted those gifts with the same equivocal feeling I had when my father, on the dole, would take us to a restaurant. That sense of excitement mixed with uncertainty and guilt. How could I accept them? Why did you give me all those gifts? Now I regret not having been the one to give them to you: clothes, shoes, perfume. Everything that could prolong my presence in you.
Because objects last longer than feelings.