Work Text
The women preen and flirt.The Stetson dips slightly and turnsaway. ~Bullets fly. The Stetson dodges.It dips and weaves.At times it flies off, caught upon a stiffbreeze. Once, it is pierced. ~The streets of Chicago pass in a blur.A door opens on a rush of wind.The Stetson's inner band grips tightand prepares to roll. ~The fur of the half-wolf clings to its felt;its wearer cleans it with a velvet brush.On a clockwork schedule, the Stetson meetsiron and steam. ~At the height of city summer, it lies wiltedand limp. In the North, the air is crisp,weightless.The Stetson contracts: its fibers bristleand remember. ~The cabin smells of evergreen.The office smells of paper and neatsfoot oil.The Stetson smells of wool, leather, hairtonic, and Mountie. ~The boat lies beneath Lake Superior.Upon the lake's surface lies a Stetson. ~The men preen and flirt. The Stetsonlingers. ~All things are Stetson except its wearer. ~The detective's hair prickles, tickles,like the corners of the colored paperthe wearer tucks within its inner band.It slips and lurches to and fro, ill fit, unableto sit. ~Long ago, the Stetson knew many others.It used to hang on oaken racks amonga hundred like it.Now the Stetson sees few of its kind.It does not miss them. ~In the photograph, there is a man, a man, a half-wolf, and a Stetson.The Stetson is not where it should be. ~The man lifts the Stetson and flings it away."Ray!" cries the wearer. The Stetson slidesto a halt at the edge of the kitchen counter,overbalances, and topples onto a barstool."No harm, see?" says the man, placing the Stetsonon the bar with exaggerated care.Fingers card through the wearer's hair;the men move away, out of sight.The Stetson remains, forgotten.