I walk past the store and feel my feet turning against my will. The snowy white glow beckons me—it is my siren song.
I. Must. Have. More.
Crew necks, V-necks, long sleeve or short. It doesn't matter. I am dazzled by the brightness, the fresh, pristine blank slate, so I buy one. Or three. I promise myself this time will be different. This time they will stay clean, there will be no stains. But it is not meant to be. Inevitably they get splashed with tomato sauce and thrown in with darks. Sticky fingers tug on the bottom edges.
Why do they want to fingerpaint? Why?
The varying shades of grey and stains that can’t be washed away sicken me. I hide these dull versions of their former selves at the bottom of the drawer wondering where it all went wrong. The detergents don't work, the brightness is never the same no matter what the advertisements might say. Bleach is a dream sold to people like me wanting to believe in the fantasy.
I go the mall to start anew. This time I know it will be different.
Maybe this is what they mean by little white lies.
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