Lint spent so long wandering aimlessly, blowing through the world, keeping pieces of his journey to build himself up. He thought if he didn't feel like he had substance on his own, he could create it with the help of the world around him. To fill the emptiness he felt inside, he collected. His body became a hall of fame of sorts, cataloguing his victories, his failures, his close calls, and evidence of experiences he wished he could forget.
The cat hair could remind him of the month he spent in that crazy lady's apartment in NOHO 55. The crumbs from his week at the In-N-Out on Lankershim to this day makes him itchy when the weather is bad. The dust from the library marked some of his fonder memories. It was safe there. He was comfortable. Bits of his life built a portable museum.
Nothing compared to his favorite exhibit of all, though, her. Her sweet as candy smile could light up any room. She would always smell of nostalgia, joy, and soy. Her ever present enthusiasm could make even grumpy Little Army crack a smile on occasion. The first time she hugged him, his fibers were colored just the faintest tinge of blue. You could barely see it, but she was so embarrassed. The humidity, she hadn't thought. She was so sorry, but he was ecstatic. She had an exhibit now. He tried to keep his cool.
That blue tinted edge became his favorite thing about himself. Even in such a small way, if he could be like her, he'd take it. If he could keep her with him forever, he'd cherish it. Her shade of blue was all he saw when he shut his eyes at night, and it's all he ever wanted to see when he opened them. She was perfect.
But now, under the incandescent lights of a hot pink bus, her exhibit becomes a memorial. A slice of life becomes a highlight reel. A shard of candy coating rocks on the floor as they hit a pothole. He waits for Top Hat to look away from it. It feels like hours. How could she be gone? How could they have failed her? How could he have failed her? She was his everything. Now he has nothing. He should have told her. He thought he'd have more time. Now he has to live with his cowardice. The blue fibers mock him, such a measly little artifact from someone who meant so much. He exhales and deflates some. He should have been different, been better, been something.
The shard sits on the ground, ridiculing him. His last opportunity for memorabilia is a reminder of the worst day of his life. Could he live only having a hint of her, that can be gaslit out of existence with some bad lighting? Or does he need more substance, even if it hurts? He looks around. Little Army Man is sitting with an inconsolable Hat across the aisle, neither giving him much thought.
A nonexistent clock ticks somewhere. If he could sweat, he would. If he could cry, he would. Something in his head snaps. He needs all of her that he can get, even if it's a bookmark of his failure to do the most important job he ever had.
He picks up the shard and freezes. It has lint on it, his lint. She carried him too. Even if it didn't mean the same to her as it did to him and even if she never even noticed, it was there. She held him, and he held her.
M for memory. M for magical. M for most important. M for memorial. M for missed opportunities. M for massive failure. M for missing her. M for mine.
He places the shard next to his once favorite bit of himself, his bit of her.
He wishes life were different. He wishes he were better. He wishes she were here.
