Yesterday was rainy much of the day, and I was unable to go out and be productive in the garden for the first time in a week. I sat around reading and daydreaming, and at one point a memory hit me.
I have an old dark lavender smoking jacket of high quality make and material. It’s the kind of garment one can rarely wear unless he is a fop or a dandy. I tend toward jeans and T-shirts for the most part, but have worn this jacket over the years to certain events, typically as part of a costume, or to New Year’s parties. When we moved away from the USA 5 years ago, I put the coat in my mother’s house in her guest room closet. I only fetched it last January when we were home for the holidays.
The jacket was given to me by a long-time friend from whom I’ve lately become estranged. He purchased it when he was in the throes of major substance addiction, and gave it to me when he became sober. Ironically, I used to keep illicit substances wrapped in plastic or foil in the pockets of this jacket. This was the memory which suddenly hit me: what if I’d concealed something in those jacket pockets and forgotten? Imagine the situation at customs upon our arrival in France!
Naturally I had to go rummage around in the jacket pockets just to be sure. There was nothing, but while I poked and prodded and carefully probed the pockets both interior and exterior of this old garment, and in between memories both fond and otherwise of the friend who’d gifted it to me, I was hit by a delicious idea for a short story.
I’d not had an idea for a short story in 15 years. I’ve not written one for longer than that. Perhaps my long-dormant muse is awakening?
Mysterium Coniunctionis 