The collar of her jacket had been bothering her from the moment she donned the beige tweed fiasco before leaving the flat. Now she was trapped in a date of the “trying to nail down a life-mate before it’s too late” variety, nestled in a forgivingly private leather booth at the neighbourhood bar.
Her collar whispered to her, “His hair is ridiculous,” as it rasped against the soft skin of her neck like a cat’s tongue.
Throwing back the oppressive jacket from her shoulders, she found no escape. The collar insisted opinions both valid and unwelcome from behind her on the leather bench:
“I bet he’s lousy in bed, just look at his skin.”
“He’s totally not in your league. You’d be better off just going for Kevin in the receiving department.”
“You can tell he doesn’t even work out, and he’s probably a paleo fag.”
She resolved to give the jacket to good-will as soon as possible.
She also resolved to have sex with her date and never call him again.