The Inkwell presents: Facing the Consequences

Denim Demons

Written by Geremy Bordonaro

A denim angel falls from Heaven, like Lucifer. I watched from the park as it came tumbling out the window. Helpless but to witness it collapse to the ground with little fanfare. There was a stillness in me as I caught a glimpse of him in that window before it closed. But I couldn't keep still for long. I had to see it. I approached it, like I was trying to get close to a scared cat. Like, if I made one wrong move, it would fly off into the streets, never to be seen again. When I got close enough, I slowly grasped it and brought it to my face.

It smelled awful. Though less awful than when I tried to pawn it off. I started to cry into the terrible thing. I tried to keep myself together, but having that jacket in my hands made it all come rushing back. So the tequila-soaked garment got further soaked with tears.

A loud honk echoed behind me—Michael in his truck. There to pick me up and take me away for the last time. There was no sense in standing there and ignoring him in favour of crying more. I wiped my tears up and sat in the front passenger seat. Michael asks if I'm all right or if he needs to crack skulls. I tell him 'no,' and we speed off.

It takes a while for the smell to come out. Michael paid for professional dry cleaning, and that seemed to do the trick. The scent of what we did that night had disappeared entirely, and it was nearly back to being the expensive gift I used to cherish.

Yet, the memories of that day would not wash away. No one would let them go. Not my ex's friends. Not my friends. There was only one friend left who did not judge me. And the only reason for that was because he worked with me, and we didn't pry into each other's personal lives.

In fact, work seems to be my only escape. My job as a stylist at Holt Renfrew, a fashion outlet for rich people, is not especially rewarding. I wanted to do something more exciting in the world of fashion. But this is one place I can escape from the worries of real life. Throw my jacket into the locker and let the sins it carries stink up the staff changing room for a while. It isn't my problem while I help the one percent dress themselves.

Yet, when my shift is over, it all comes back. And, though the real smell has been gone for a while, it still lingers in my mind.

I'm about to leave the store, grab some dinner and take the subway back to Michael's, when I'm stopped by Ricardo, my only remaining friend, outside the staff room.

"Oh, thank God," he huffs and puffs, clearly having rushed from his workstation to get to me before I left. "Real demanding customer. Asked for a female stylist. Please save me."

This was odd in itself. Ricardo is impossibly charming. The type of guy who could sell Tom Ford to a homeless man. He was working sunglasses today, which was even more odd. You don't usually need a stylist to gush about whether sunglasses look good on you or not.

I expect the worst as we walk through. Probably some raging menopause monster who thinks a rich husband and a house in Thornhill gives her the right to scream at customer service workers. Someone who doesn't respect the establishment, or me, and will gladly fuck with me because she knows my manager could not give a rat's ass. The only bright side is the incoming anger from this will distract me from the struggles of my everyday life.

But the customer waiting for us is somehow worse than what I expected. A situation from my nightmares. Standing there is Amy Hofstad. One of my ex's best friends from all the way back in high school. And, as I'm about to bolt, Ricardo stops me, grabbing hold of my arm.

He turns to Amy. Her eyes are hidden by the big, round sunglasses she's trying on. But the cracks of a smile start forming on her face, and terror fills me. She's always terrified me, though. Amy is taller than any woman I've met. In heels, taller than any man. She's extremely fit, and extremely paranoid. Enough to do something drastic.