Thou shalt not steal

Posted by Ann Evans in Uncategorized | 0 comments

A pair of stretchy black gloves with fake leopard skin fluff at the wrist lay on a seat on my way to the door as the train bucked a bit, screeched a bit, pulling into the last station on the line.  I was the only person in the car.  I picked up the lightweight, attractive, practical gloves, studied them, looked around for the conductor, who was elsewhere, and put the gloves in my pocket.  It was stealing.  I know that.  But how would the woman ever get them back?  The lost and found at Penn Station has never had anything I’ve lost.  They were pretty.  I stole them.

I put them on the kitchen counter when I got home, and the next morning picked them up to put them on.  They stank of a perfume I don’t enjoy.

I rinsed them well and left them overnight to dry.  The next morning they still stank.  I washed them with dishwashing liquid, rinsed them well and left them to dry.  They still stank.

Now I have a pair of gloves which will offend me if I wear them, assaulting my senses with a heavy, musky perfume.  They are still on the kitchen counter pointing their allegorical fingers at me. I must either assault the accusing perfume with my own scent by wearing the gloves, or I must throw them away.

“Thou shalt not steal” is post hoc, useless in this situation.  I know what I won’t do next time, though.

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Life went on

Life went on again after Daring to Date Again: A Memoir ended, so I began this wide-ranging blog about life as a writer and as a woman in the early 21st century, especially as an older woman.

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