Peter sucked in his gut. The button couldn’t reach the hole. This was his only shirt. Any other shirts he had were still in the cupboard at Grace’s, in a landfill somewhere, or packed away in a box.
She messaged him weeks ago, telling him his stuff was sitting in the garage ready for him to pick up.
He looked around the small apartment. There was no room for anything else. And now, this job interview was going to go to shit simply because he’d piled on weight since the last time he’d worn this shirt, and everything was shit because she had all his stuff.
Peter ripped off the shirt, the few buttons that had fitted ripped apart. He had time to go to Target to buy a new shirt. One that fitted.
As he walked out of the toilet cubicle at the shopping centre, he could see the creases from the packaging and immediately regretted everything.
But he needed this interview for his Centrelink records, so he walked out, determined to make the best of this.
He also resolved to pick up his stuff from Grace’s.