Crowned Cloth

I don’t think you were too pleased to see me when we were first introduced. Judging by your pasty face, eyes devoid of spark, it probably wasn’t the best time to have crossed paths; especially considering that you were a little busy, well, being lowered into the ground. Of course –- it could’ve been all the stress that characterised your last few months. Despite that, I think you could’ve been a little more receptive to my presence. After all, you have me to thank -- more than anyone -- for your propulsion into mainstream fame. All publicity is good publicity.

Whoever fixed you up did a terrific job, by the way. The tidy tux paired with the glazed-polished black loafers was a classy way to go. The emerald green bowtie contrasted wonderfully against the satin sheets and your equally milk-white face. I even disagreed with the onlooker behind me -- I might go so far as to say that the touch of mascara was a welcome addition. If you were a little more alive, you would make an explosive presence at the next gala. But enough about the look; we need to address the pending matter at hand.

It’s my job to know the nuances of the rich and famous; which car they drive, their hip and waist measurements. After acquiring this information, I put it on a website for all their hungry fans to devour; maybe make a quick quiz, and then I get paid. Essentially, we are like Famous Birthdays or Buzzfeed, but tasteful, cosmopolitan. When I stumbled across your handkerchief, I can assure you that I was on strictly professional pursuits.

There was something about a royal heirloom, forged from the depths of – okay, I didn’t read through that. Point is, you gained the prestigious accolade of having a quiz on Infosprout.com, and you saw it. You saw and quote-tweeted it after you got ‘most likely to forget handkerchief at home during flu season’, saying that it was completely and utterly wide of the mark. You would never leave it at home because you were a 'flu magnet' and would always have a green gob swinging from your nose otherwise. The torrent of DM’s I received from your staunch fanbase -- wishing death on me, might I emphasise -- did more damage to my reputation than any scathing review on Twitter could.

When I first saw the image TMZ posted, I was underwhelmed, to be frank. It was a plain baby blue square sheet of fabric, splitting at the seams, and the world was going crazy over it. Seeing it in person was an even greater disappointment, especially given the reception you gave me and my esteemed associates, just trying to do our jobs.

“What can you tell us about the upcoming ‘Pigs of Parody’ film?”

“Hey, can you look over here? Just for a second!”

“Is there anything going on between you and Geneva Winters? You two looked pretty close in ‘Zombies in Paris’!”

I sensed a whiff of deep-rooted misogyny in the way you verbally attacked me after I – politely – asked:

“Is it true that you were denied entry into the London Fashion Week because you tried to kiss a bodyguard?”

And I’m not too sure if you recognised me from the quiz, or if it was all the booze but – 

“Why don’t you get out of my face, huh? Go and do something worthwhile in your life, for once.”

All that acid in your voice felt like a caustic slap in the face; a sting that was further perpetuated by your acrid liquor breath.

As far as I was aware, there was no such seminar at Infosprout about what to do when your muse hates you. So I just stood there, like a dear in headlights, and watched your handkerchief fall out of your trouser pocket as you staggered into the car.

I wasn’t too sure what to do with it this morning. The square had fulfilled its purpose, and was now just a light blue sheet of fabric, softened and thoroughly scented with a delicate lavender (you are most welcome, by the way). What was I to do with it? It wasn't even one of those kinds that appeared to have inexhaustible layers, increasing 2-fold, 4-fold, 16-fold. There was one square that became four, and that was the end of the magic trick. Twenty-two centimetres one way and the other, the wind could probably carry it away. I'm surprised you didn't ask for any lace on it too, while you were at it.

Worst of all, nobody really uses them anymore unless it’s sticking out a suit pocket, but you were on an environmental conservation crusade after your cheating scandal with poor Tinsley Chandler.

When my supervisor called and asked me why the hell I hadn't arrived at your proceedings, I just stuffed it in my pocket and scampered over. 

“Here, you dropped this.”

My heart aches for Tinsley, it really does. After all of the text messages leaked to the press, your notes app statement, she still showed. She showed and she even shed tears for you, that naïve little tyke. All she could talk about between sobs was her love for you; fleeting in practice but undying in fantasy. Her anguish can really be felt in the picture I took of her; tangible distress and agony that I hope the people that give out Pulitzers will acknowledge.

Your mother had tirelessly produced this fabulous service for you. I overheard her telling someone that it was the least she could do after neglecting to educate you on the implications that can arise from putting a metal fork in a running toaster. Albeit the occasion, I respectfully proposed that she collaborate with Infosprout to publicise toaster safety quizzes. Business-wise, the stars aligned; she buries her guilt, I win employee of the month. 

And as any just person would, I gave it back. It's in your front pocket, all tucked and proper. 

Maybe now you can use it to dabble all the sweat from your forehead down there.