Out of the Blue

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Floating in the void was the wretched Fair Isle sweater, its lumpy blue nimbus circling vanilla wool. It emitted the stench of sweatsoaked humiliation and had a certain Je ne sais quoi (literally, She did not know what). The mirror, when She’d stood before it in the distant future, reflected her hot face, rosacea taking the place of acne, menopausal memory loss reducing Her to once again muttering Je ne suis pas. To laughter. (Class, Emily is not. Poor Mademoiselle Emily, she does not exist!) The sweater balled and pilled, pilled and balled. She painted the sky yellow, the birds octagonal, Her long nails aubergine. She blew the wind to the seventeen corners. She stood for a minute in a whiteout of green. The sweater unfurled, yarn by yarn by yarn. She dove into the ring of mirrors the handmirror drilled, down and out, down and out. Je ne suis pas, Je ne suis pas.

Ms. Emily, to you.