I head out of my lonely apartment. The plant on my dining table is the only other sign of life in that enclosed space, but I like it that way. It’s a shoot dipped in a bottle of water, freeing me of the mundane worry of watering it every day. It just grows and gives me solace when I need it. I leave it there and think of ‘shopping therapy.’

The downtown streets in Toronto are quieter than expected. It’s middle of the afternoon and I love shopping at this hour, very few customers and no waiting lines. I keep on walking down Bloor Street until that Cashmere sweater catches my eye.

I stand outside that window staring at that thin waist, the long neck, and perfect curves, the touch of a smile, that small kissable mouth and those long fingers resting just above the hip. She is just perfect. A perfect doll staring right at me. She doesn’t move and I can admire her for as long as I like. And that Cashmere sweater, white and soft. Reminds me of the clouds that you stare at when flying in an airplane. I want to touch that sweater, or even better, I want it to hug my body.

I step inside the small boutique. The sales girl smiles at me, “Do you need help with anything?”

I want to shout, “Yes, I need help with fixing men. They are all damaged but I don’t know which shop to return them at” but I hold my thoughts back and force to smile as well, “I want that sweater,” I point at the manikin in the window.

“Oh, that’s the last piece left. We are going to have another shipment in about 2 days…” she starts explaining but I am not listening.

“I want THAT sweater,” I point at it again, “Not another one like that but EXACTLY that one.”

She stares at me speechless; scared of the fierce look I have on my face. She moves towards the manikin and after a few minutes of struggle, she hands me the sweater.

I hold it between my fingers. Feeling the soft cashmere, the cable design running from shoulders to the bottom. I admire the perfect cut and the V neckline that would define my shoulders and nicely caress my collarbones. I bring it close to my cheeks and close my eyes while lightly rubbing it across my face. I would have moaned with pleasure when her voice interrupted my thoughts, “The change rooms are that way.”

I follow her to the change rooms and in a few seconds I am staring at this stranger in the mirror wrapped in cashmere. The waist is not thin, the hips are not narrow and the neck is not long. This stranger is voluptuous and round. Curvy but not perfect. I turn slightly trying to have a glimpse of the back. The white cashmere is not hugging this body, it’s suffocating it. The cable design on this cashmere is tying her down, making her a prisoner. I stare at the slight love handles at the top of her hips, and think of the loveless life this stranger has.

I turn around and pull that white cashmere sweater off. I don’t deserve white or do I still? I question my pious nature. I stare at the blue marks on my exposed breasts. Sign of love, remnants of passion, marks of torture or self inflicted punishment? Reminder of a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare? I just stare and run my fingertips over them. They still ache but not as bad as the heart does, yet I am not dead.

I cover myself, step out and hand that cashmere sweater to the sales girl. “Don’t you want it?” she asks me with a tempting tone.

“Do I?” I ask myself.

I stare at the sweater and I stare at myself. We both look perfect in our own space. I reply in negative, thinking about the image in the mirror.

On my way out, I slightly pause in front of the naked manikin. Her smile doesn’t seem real now. Her eyes are crying and not staring at me. They are staring at those three little child manikins in the window. She is sad, alone and worried. She wants her place in that window back and only the white cashmere can get her that.

I have stripped her naked. Her prefect figure is not admirable without the white cashmere sweater. I can sense her loss and I feel a pang of guilt. I turn slightly and whisper to the manikin, “He’s all yours.”

I step out of the shop and stare at the shining sun and the cloudless blue sky. I am happy that I am not a doll, and I don’t want the cables of that white cashmere to tie me down.

I don’t belong in that window and You are not my white cashmere sweater.

Author:Saniya Zahid