Gloves by Lucy Flowers

 A stunning, suave woman in the God-show was wearing your gloves.  Strutting seamlessly down the human runway from where the angels had already taken off, her tuned arms sang in circles, her body a perfect note and her hands slipped inside fantastic blue imitation leather gloves.  An over-size-tadpole-shaped band unnecessarily fastens across the back of them, making of a patch of skin a beautiful oval, rimmed with white imitation leather piping.  The gloves finish just at the bottom of the hand, baring wrist.  She hip pouted an even amount of times at the cliff end overhanging the droves of us, all applauding her parade, her sparkle, the design; we like to watch and dream, our eyes unclosing, our hands tingling… Another girl is already aiming at us, but the girl in the gloves gifts us with a last flick of a sure regard, a wrist in movement, a goodbye.

 You were not so kind.  You certainly didn’t dress up for the occasion.   You left your gloves, your drawings, scribbles, clothes and every little tiny thing you collected in the space of 27 years behind you.  And you didn’t turn around.  Your goodbye was a little final and taken with less advice than we would have been willing to give.

 The boy next to me points open mouthed as the devil crouches on the rafters of the town hall, dressed in black.  A signature bow on the waistband, his half-length trousers reveal his hairy calves, between which dangles his arrow of a tail. A funny creature this devil, terribly stylish tonight.  God (in white) has already taken his seat in the wings and watches unashamedly as the procession continues; the colour, the nerve, the naughtiness.  He brings forth a little comment here and there; nothing more… you win some you lose some but all in all they’re a handsome bunch.  Adam saunters, Eve struts, the angels take five backstage and the devil comes down from the rafters and the snake ends up being caressed by the kids that have come with their parents to see the show.

 Clothes design by Stéphane V.  Hair by Tif’ani.  Hats, Céline.  And one pair of gloves by Lucy Flowers. He saw them at my house and asked if he could buy them for his upcoming fashion show.  I said No Way, they are Not for Sale, but I would donate them for the sake of Art.  I wanted to give them New Life. The only things I ever touched of yours were your gloves and I gave them away. Stranger as you were, I allow myself to be a latecomer watching as the dirty river glimmered bottle bright.  I find my place, but there is just silence.  You are already gone.  She was wearing your gloves, Lucy Flowers.  Strutting seamlessly down the human runway from where the angels had already taken off.