My brodas would be off swiping something here or there from bloody misers while my pa haggled with the scum until his throat was soar. Oh yeah, it was a scene. Any onlooker would tell you it was a goddamn riot. The ten of us must have seen the oddest people in the place, with my ma and me as the most normal of the bunch.
Well, I’d notice mi motha putting on this or that scarf and then her eyes would peacefully still themselves as they gently lay on some heavenly cloth. She was prone to become entranced in scarves, because they were usually the cheapest items at the market. Our troupe had a natural attraction to cheap stuff. While watching her fawn over a scarf like it was courting her or something, I could lend advice on which was best, but insidiously became entrapped too. Looking at the fine scarves every Saturday for my bloody childhood, I couldn’t help but enjoy them. I didn’t realize what was happening.
It was more than enjoyment that I felt for the scarves. It was something more exhilarating something so exciting, an eight year old would never have sense enough to be wary of it. Scarves became my object of fetish. I’d try ‘em on in public, prance around in them, and I start a modest collection after taking up thievery with my brothers as I got older. I wore them for the other paupers to gawk at in public, but they’d never look over. They noticed nothing extravagant about my garb and saw nothing abstract about me wearing them as often as I did (even in the summertime.) I felt alone in my obsession. It couldn’t be relieved from my person onto society, it was my burden.
At twenty-eight my new wife didn’t get it. I refused to consummate our marriage until she wrapped her are skin in a sea of scarves. She refused, calling me sick. We divorced quickly and I headed to a remote part of Southeast Asia where I married a scarf by the name of Joe. We have lived happily together for ten years now. It is a scarf and I’m a merchant. We have two kids. They don’t say much but I love the rascals all the same.