The Sweater

I left the house in a hurry. My alarm was still on silent—a mental state that I long for every late night. If I manage to finally achieve that, my mornings are pure chaos. Rushing for coffee while I jump into my clothes, my hair still dripping from the shower. I run out the door when my foot catches on something. I steady myself on the wall and see the package I had been waiting for—for weeks—has apparently arrived.
I grab it and aim to put it in the hallway when I notice it has been opened.

A few weeks ago, Hilary, a friend from yoga class, kept chatting after class.
“Just try the webshop. They have beautiful things, so your style. I’ll send you the link.”
I must’ve walked away with clear doubts on my face because she felt the need to scream after me:
“Fast delivery too!”

That evening, I scoured the site. I had to have some sort of report for Hilary by next week. I hated to admit she was right. I ordered a sweater in a warm brown color, embroidered with the cutest tiny birds—pink sparrows, flying happily in front of a backdrop of light brown trees. The model in the picture even looked happy and comfortable wearing it. Perfect for my upcoming date with Nicholas.

Now, six weeks later, it nearly became my death.
Fast delivery? Yeah right, Hilary.
The package had been opened. The sweater was still there. Weird.
I put it in the hallway and took off.

Half an hour—and ten minutes too late—I started work like any other day. And it continued like that, I thought.
During my cigarette break, a thought crept up on me:
Why wasn’t the sweater stolen?
Was the ripped package a mistake during delivery, or did the thief not like it?
The thought settled into a cozy corner in the back of my mind.

Why? Is it the fabric? I didn’t check to see if it was as soft as Heidi Klum’s twin implied.
No, I’m sure it’s as soft as a teddy bear.
During lunchtime: Did he think the colors were off?
No, surely the pink pops on the complementary background.
On my way home: Maybe he doesn’t like birds?
Who doesn’t like birds?!
I finally concluded the thief to be of bad taste.
What else can you expect from a thief?

The sweater is nice—soft—and the embroidery is beautifully done.
I guess I do have to thank Hilary for the recommendation.
It’s slightly darker brown than advertised, but all in all, a beautiful thing.
I shake out the crinkles and put it over the chair for the next day, smiling.
Happy that, in fact, it wasn’t stolen.

That evening, the mystery settled, and I went to bed early, alarms set.
I woke up refreshed, took my time to shower and dry my hair.
I wore jeans with the sweater and put on my pink boots to match the tiny sparrows.
I smile. The whole outfit gives off a sort-of-casual-but-well-put-together-in-a-not-obvious-way kind of vibe.
Today is going to be a good day.

As the elevator opens, my neighbour calls from behind.
“Hold it, please.”
She rushes in. I press the button, and when I look up to greet her—but instead, I gasp.
I see that her thin beige overcoat matches the same pink sparrows, light brown trees, and overall slightly   darker brown–than–expected color of her sweater.
She is wearing my sweater.
The neighbour stares at me.
My thoughts race: What does this mean?! What are the odds?
Did the thief steal her sweater, and that’s why he didn’t steal mine?
Did she then order another one?
What does she think, and why is she staring?!
She must think I stole hers.
My cheeks turn red as I try to hide behind my purse.
The lift reaches the ground floor.
“Bye,” the neighbour says, and I relax a little.

At the end of the day, I came to the conclusion, there is no other way:
I must move house.
Thanks, Hilary!