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Hanging my laundry up to dry I notice my shirt is made of superfine 80s cotton. It displays this confidently on the collar, above and more importantly than the brand name.<\p>

Why does my shirt think this so important? It's a decent shirt from a standard department store with a renamed brand in hopes that people would think it better than it is. Nothing special, nothing noteworthy.

And yet it thinks that numbers are in some way important. As if at the bar you would reach over motherly, not yet loverly, to fix my collar -- us just having met. It's your way of getting close, my way of showing need. But the 80s would catch you.

"This man knows distinction, this man knows how to be comfortable."

And that's all it would take to go from a mother to a lover. The outstretched hand, once casual, turns to a soft and smooth caress down the back of that superfine weave. A smile plays on your face like a cotton sleeve in the wind. Or so the shirt hopes.

It hopes 80s will mean something to you like a double agent reading the want ads.

Superfine 80s for sale!

And you would know you've found your contact. You wave a cotton shirt on the beach, telling me it's ok to come ashore. A rendezvous in a hotel bar to pass along everything you've learned about the enemy. Or so the shirt hopes.

But the shirt just hangs there, damp and drying, blowing in the breeze. It dreams its 80s dreams which no one else will know.

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