Yours Now — Pullover Hoodie

'Is that mine?'

You know the answer before they look down. There is a familiar way the hood falls, a color you spent quite a long time choosing, and the small matter of it having disappeared from your chair three weeks ago. They say they borrowed it. The past tense is doing an ambitious amount of work.

You try to remember the last time you saw it at your place. It was cold. They were leaving. You said to take something, which seemed a warm and ordinary thing to say at the time. Since then the hoodie has appeared beside their coffee, on a train, and in a photograph in which they look annoyingly good. It has developed an independent social life. You have been following along.

You point out that the hoodie was supposed to go with the bright scarf you're wearing. They stand beside you in the shop window so that you can consider the evidence together. 'It does,' they say. Infuriatingly, the two of you look very good. You had expected to be the injured party, and now you are admiring the proceeds. You had imagined being the person inside the hoodie, but the version in the glass has a few things to recommend it. They adjust the scarf for you, then go back to admiring their own contribution to the arrangement.

They offer to give your hoodie back. Immediately, if you want. You imagine the very sensible exchange this would require, then look at them wearing it for another moment. Next time, you say. You are fairly sure they believe you. On the way home, you send them the photograph you liked best.

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