Hey! Look! Listen!
Just a little drabble about trenchcoats inspired by my own washing of a coat. I claim no copyright.
--I learned to clean my trenchcoats by myself at a young age. Drabble, Dib's POV. How can two people so different coexist in the same house?--
I learned to clean my trench coats myself at a young age. My dad was never home, and my sister regarded this ritual of hand cleaning the fabric as a waste of time. The first few times I did this, taking up the bathroom to let the water drain down the tub, she remarked that it would be much more sensible to not wear them while running around and tromping through disreputable places in search of evidence. It was fair logic, which only helped the rationalization in my head to grow. There was of course the simple response, that I was attached to it. But I knew that confirming that fact anywhere outside of my head would immediately make my trench coat a target of attack for karma. I wasn't paranoid, I simply had a bad track record, and while not needing to accept it, stubbornly adapting to it my own way. I knew also that eventually it would go beyond repair, or get too small, at which time it would have to be replaced. I did not like to admit it, but I knew it to be true. Just as I knew it was only a piece of clothing after all, I knew I would regret the day hen I would have to part with it. Several times I caught my sister glancing over at my work as I turned the coat over, at least a small bit curious, even if she wasn't going to admit it. In that way, at least, there was common ground between us. She complained as much about my washing the coat as she did about my hobbies. Even if she seldom pronounced them right, she knew the names. It took a certain knowledge to pretend to have none. She was hardly interested in the things I was, but for a different reason. While I wanted to learn about them, she simply accepted them as being there. Her theory was that she could intimidate them even if they weren't human. Centuries of living on this planet and not keeping up your guard, she once confided in me years ago, would soften anyone. She was probably right. Threatening worked for her, investigating worked for me. We had a grudging alliance back then, and still keep the bare threads of that intact now. I can tolerate her much easier than she can tolerate me, especially when I have only one thing on my mind. It's part of her way of dealing with life, and she goes around as if it were a video game, using her best weapon to destroy the enemy. Maybe it is. And sometimes I wish I had that skill, but I don't. We are different, but we have still had to cope with the same things, each turning us in different ways, our more comfortable shells. The water swirls out of the tub. I heft the wet leather out and throw it into the dryer. I push the start button. I hear my sister shout at me about a movie on tv. I leave the room, and the cycle continues. Sometimes it's nice to know it does.