Maybe I'm Becoming Invisible, Too

Today, as I walked through the park toward downtown, I was followed by an empty track suit moving of its own accord.

Pressing my ears to the gutter drains, I heard names whispered, but not mine. People's identities whisked about like diplomats at the airport, but the drains had nothing on me.

This suit was running off the tubes, then, swimming in another river all together. What was his hook, I wondered, and was I his fish?

When I tried to ambush him, he just crumpled like some old clothes -- like any regular inanimate track suit.

I thought about putting it on, but instead I picked it up off the grass, and plopped it into a washer at the closest laundromat. I would have gone straight for the dryer, but there was a "wash first" policy -- strictly enforced according to the signs.

Once the suit was in the dryer, I left and didn't come back, but only after I watched the thing tumble for a bit.

Later that night, I spent some time trying to make my socks move of their own accord. I gave up eventually, satisfied that they stood perfectly still as if by stubborn purpose.

That's good enough, I think.