Western shirt

A western shirt. Wrangler, no less, off a crowded rack of a Manhattan thrift store.

“It’s a little boxy,” I said, tugging the ribs of the shirt out like wings. “Too roomy.”

Holly loved the color, the vibe. “We can get it tailored, take it in…”

“It’s just…cavernous,” I countered.

She said no more. Took the shirt to the counter. Rang it up.

The shirt flew home to Utah with us, in spite of being way too baggy to wear in public.

Surprise! We never got it tailored.

I am wearing it now.

In public.

It is a little snug.