Ripped in Two

The other night, I fell asleep holding Stéphane's hand. I dreamt I was in the back of a car with the windows open, and a violent rainstorm was raging outside. It was night, and I was wearing the grey and black polka dotted silk scarf he had given me in Troyes to console me after getting a haircut I didn't like. I had burst into tears when the hairstylist had finished, thinking I looked too masculine, crushed at haven been given bangs without consent. Afterwards, he took me to the textile town's well-known outlet stores to buy his mother a Mother's Day present. Deciding against a colorful silk nightgown, we found an accessories store, where he saw me fingering the grey and black polka dots of the scarf. He bought it for me on the spot. I half wanted to tie it around my head in 1950's style to hide my hair, but decided to be brave instead. It was just hair, after all.

In the car in the dream, I had the scarf in my lap, and was once again fingering the polka dots, when suddenly, the wind picked up and the scarf was wrenched from my hands, flying out the open window and up into the stormy sky. I lunged for it, grabbing it with one hand and holding onto it with all my might, when there was a sudden clap of thunder and bolt of lightening, and the scarf ripped in two.

The next day, Stéphane told me he had seen his ex-girlfriend while I had been away in the States, and she had asked him to come back to her. A few days later, he did.

I haven't worn it since.