Lost glove: still missing

Morning darklings,

One night, I slept on the beach in a car and lost one of my favorite driving gloves. This was before I met my husband, and I have never recovered. From the loss, that is.

A local band I know is on their way to a town about two hours away. I’m going with them to watch them play at a dive not unlike the dives they play at weekly twenty minutes from my house. They will play the same songs they always do in clothes I’ve seen them in dozens of times. I’m still very excited.

I can’t drink yet, and I’m also too weak to carry more than the smallest amp, but they enjoy my company.

When the lead singer and bass guitarist explain why a 19-year-old who can’t do much but sing along with every song and tell stories in between sets needs to be with them, they simply say they can’t be without their Super Buffy.

Who among us, am I right?

So we’re in the smoky bar with the neons and the Christmas tree lights and the sticky floor, and the set goes just as it should. The melodies are good. The lyrics are emotional but not deep. They connect with the small audience. The room smells of stale PBR and heady cologne. The bartender eyes me so often that his eyes soften then turn wolfish (I steer clear of him and make the band members get me water).

I dance. I sing.

Then, it’s time to go.

Outside, everyone is debating what to do next—hotel, motel, drive anyway, sleep in the car. Everyone but me is drunk, though. If I could drive three cars home, we would be fine, but instant cloning isn’t a thing. Even if it was, would I still be Super if there were a lot of me?

One carload of people chooses to drive home. They choose this after yelling at people leaving the bar who walk too close to them. I cannot take their keys, but I do try.

Another says they’ll check out the cheapest motel. I’m broke, so I wish them the best.

The third suggests driving to the beach and sleeping there. The beach is literally my happy place—even when it’s so cold the wind feels like a slap and the water burns if it touches me—so I climb in the drummer’s car.

There are five of us, just out there on the packed sand watching the sun rise and the sky fading into a hue of blue I’ve only seen on the East Coast. We doze off here and there. I think we all get about two hours of sleep. The drummer has another job, though, so he starts driving home around 7.

When he drops me off, I grab my purse, my jacket, and my gloves. They are the only thing I brought with me. Only one glove is there. He waits until I search the whole car—with the others’ help. But no. They aren’t there. I’m crying.

Burgundy, buttery leather, silver buttons down the side, fit my fingers like they were stitched just for me, they were something straight from a movie. Someone left them at The Rialto, and I waited for two years before I took them. I had them the same length of time.

I’ve not found gloves as good as those since.

Earlier this week, I reached for my gloves. They are fine. Worn, black leather, soft enough on the inside. There is a space around the edge because they don’t fit perfectly, so a bit of chill gets in by my palm.

The entire time I’m walking from my parked car to the coffee shop, all I can think about is those little leather gloves. The night I lost them was like so many others I’ve had and will have in the future. They may look different, be in a museum or late night garden instead of a bar, but the feelings will be the same. But I’ll never get those gloves back.

There’s also this coat I lost in transit of moving…

a lil board

Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.