Angie shifted her weight, the fabric of her oversized, charcoal wool coat swinging dramatically. She tilted her head, her eyes catching the golden-hour light flooding through the west-facing windows. She wasn't thinking about the coat, or the vintage silk scarf tied loosely around her neck, or the brutalist silver rings adorning her fingers. She was thinking about the story they told.
They spent the next hour not talking about trends, but about memories. They talked about how a certain brooch reminded a woman of her mother, or how the texture of velvet made another resident feel elegant again after years of wearing hospital gowns. angie faith boob
She uploaded a new photo. It was a blurry, grainy shot she’d asked Martha to take of her in the denim jacket, holding the red beret, both of them laughing at the camera's poor focus. Angie shifted her weight, the fabric of her