Turbas Against Fashionistas

I should have known better when I first saw them flying around. Tiny butterflies wannabes dancing around my light and enjoying the smell of herbs, flowers and rose water: organic pleasures brightening my tropical night. Turbas against fashionistas is what they were: organisms that ate my objects d’art away. Elitist conduct on their part as they did not eat from the brand less jackets or clothes, bought in a cheap store in Santurce. Not even one of those cheap pants and jackets were touched by the locally named tijerillas. Love at first sight was betrayed.

Vacuum cleaner in hand, non toxic disinfectant, broom and fierce determination put a stop to my slow moving tropical night and led me into wiping out any mark of their existence; their physical existence. Tijerillas was the nick name my other used to call me when pesting her with my demands. The name was based on a joke about a woman who used to call her annoying husband with the same nick name, until he decided to kill her - so much for a mother’s support of a demanding adolescent. Just like the man who killed his wife, I sprayed and vacuumed and swept the tijerillas away.

My Saint Laurent, Perry Ellis, and Hugo Boss were redesigned by the small flying insects that suddenly appear on that marvelous bolero type of tropical night. After not checking on them for over two years, a visit to their closet in these volatile tropics was most recommended. With a trip coming soon it was time to select the suits to bring with me. A cruise always demands closet selection and retro Saint Laurent, a conservative Perry Ellis, a light Hugo Boss can lift old memories in an aging socialista de salón while cruising the Atlantic in search of himself. To find myself is the excuse I always use when planning a trip.

Esthete emotional shock was felt when confronted with a missing arm in my Perry Ellis, half of Saint Laurent was full of holes and Hugo Boss completely gone; all eaten away by lively tiny tropical insects that I once thought were entertaining my tropical nights, as touchy feely as if they were my friends. I had been living with those satanical insects in my bedroom while they ate my objects d’art away.