I thought of this yesterday, but forgot about it, but then I remembered, so you get it today.
It's one of the oldest pieces of clothing I own: a once black, now gray tank top with an irregular, almost orange bleach stain over the belly. I remember the girl I stole it from in Tucson, after we went and saw a show at the Downtown Performance Center where they covered the audience in chocolate syrup, whiskey, flour, maybe urine? and other nameless substances while drums pounded the venue into a frenzy.
It took forever to get the smell out, and it lingered for years, the same way I remember her raspy voice and her constant, simmering rage, her combat boots and her prickly sensitivity; and while I don't miss her at all, I do remember her.