"He had been kind of dreading that question. She stood framed in the door’s half spilled light as beautiful as ever, his old biker jacket creaking in her hands. He must have hesitated because she laughed, ‘..You love this old skin more than me’, slipping it over her bare shoulders and disappearing into the shadows of the apartment.
It was a sacred jacket, soaked in memories, a second skin. With him since late bruising teens, slept in, smoked in, cried in, drunk in, sex on. Now its scented memories hang in his room, embedded and comforting, supple and sensual, reeking in his mind of a sweet life lived. Of course she can wear it, she can add her story to his, flowers, books, oranges and powder to smoke, leather and the ghost of cigarettes. Enigma, masterpiece & memory. Love is a shared leather. L’amour est un cuir partegé… "