For my mother
The shirt was yellow.
It was a simple shirt really, just an ordinary T shirt her mother had bought for her on sale at Target at least six years ago.
She didn't ordinarily like yellow, but what meager clothing she had was all fairly monotone, so her teenage self felt she should branch out a little and something about the cheerful color had spoken to her, so she kept it.
The simple cotton garment was stretched out and misshapen, although it still fit her like a glove – an old, decrepit glove, but a glove nonetheless. The fabric, extremely soft and worn-out, was deteriorating rapidly; the majority of the shirt was covered in those little knobby balls that form on old cotton. The hole-filled hem was almost completely destroyed and small faded strings hung every which way. The once neat rows of stitches along the V shaped neckline were loose and torn from one too many snags in crappy dryers and the color, once yellow as a crow's foot, had dulled to a soft cream with subtle stripes of the old color still showing through in some places.
The shirt was becoming more and more transparent with each wash, so she rarely washed it, which led to the shirt being covered in stains. Evidence from the time she'd attempted to color her hair a ghastly shade of red still glowed in purplish hues around the collar, the large stain from the embarrassingly bloody run-in she'd once had with a motel-room cactus shone brightly on the right side, along with faint specks from other stains proved that the shirt was nothing if not loved.
But he didn't know any of this.
In fact, it hadn't become her favorite shirt until she saw how he looked at her when she was wearing it.
She always changed clothes after hunts; everyone did. Usually, she'd just slip into an oversized black t shirt with some band name scrawled across the front and a pair of dingy sweatpants, but not today.
Today she wore yellow.
It wasn't bright yellow. Maybe it had been a vibrant yellow once, but it hadn't been for a long time. Faint stains littered the shirt, but that didn't prevent her from looking absolutely dazzling.
She was sitting on his car with her knees bent, her bare feet no doubt leaving small greasy footprints on the hood as she leaned back against the windshield. She ran a hand through her matted curls. The setting sun cast its rays down on her and, in that moment, he was certain he'd never seen anything more beautiful.
He just couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her.
She ran a hand through her tangled curls as she took a sip from the beer bottle clutched in her other hand. She glanced over at him with a smirk. "You comin'?" she asked, nodding towards the space on the hood beside her. He rolled his eyes and walked towards her, handing her his beer as he scrambled up beside her.
Her eyes were trained on the sunset, but his were trained on her – the way the sunset reflected against her yellow shirt, bringing out the gold in her hair, highlighting the soft contours of her face…
He was certain he'd never seen anything more beautiful.