Jana had lost the thread.

Of her life.

More immediately, though, she had lost the thread that matched the hem of her black slacks, which in turn matched the pink pinstripe that ran down each leg. "Funky fresh!" Clarisse had cackled three months ago, when Jana modeled them out of the dressing room, arms akimbo, twisting her torso in an exaggerated fashion. "Funky fresh" was a very funny thing for Clarisse to say three months ago, though Jana couldn't tell you why now. Thinking about it, it didn't really even make sense. Still, on the mornings on which she deigned to wear this new fixture of her wardrobe, as she unlatched them from their hanger, she said the words "funky fresh" to herself with a giggle.

For the past four weeks, though, the slacks had been hanging uselessly in Jana's closet, passed over every morning due to a snag—a fishhook embedded in the carpet of her office, of all things!—that unfurled the hem of the right leg. Put out to pasture prematurely, they were consistently passed over in favor of tan and navy-colored slacks and skirts.

But this morning at about eight o'clok, she found herself staring absently at the cotton-polyester blend, whispering "funky fresh" almost mournfully. That did it. After work, she made a point of venturing into the sewing aisle at the supermarket for the very first time.

* * * *
A sheet of Internet-retrieved, freshly printed instructions detailing how to mend a hemline slowly crinkling in her left hand, Jana presses her ear to the carpet, scanning underneath her bed—no spool in sight. Letting out a sigh, she pauses a moment to hear the strains of an anonymous John Williams score coming from the apartment of the neighbors below.

Two thoughts enter her mind. First, that according to her mother, things were always in the last place you looked, which only makes sense, because why would you continue to search? Still, it seems there could only be so many places to look within her apartment. And she's seen them all now, twice, including the fridge. Second, she can't really imagine herself going to the store again tomorrow for yet another spool of pink thread, for which she would have precisely one use, and then discard. The thread couldn't have just disappeared, right?

She rolled over onto her back, staring at her open closet. The hemline of her funky fresh pinstripe pants dangled lower than any other item in her closet.

Jana had lost the thread.

Labels: short stories