#aw12

I was obsessed with these gloves when they came out—all the men’s mannequins in the Prince street store wore them all winter and i would walk past and stare imagining myself on some glamorous ski trip and not heading to my retail job. I found a pair at Space the former MiuMiu/Prada outlet in Woodbury Commons years later for a steal and snatched them up. I couldn’t believe my luck—they were a runway sample one-off.

I lost one at my best friend’s brother’s wedding at the Tribeca Grand while wearing a loaner tux I borrowed from a guy I had an unrequited crush on that worked in the Dolce and Gabbana PR closet. I called the next day, hungover, “was there a lone prada glove in the lost and found?” No.

The other glove sat in a box for years with a pair of prada socks I bought at the sample sale as a gift for my ex on the day of his suicide attempt. I got rid of it when konmari-ing was in vogue—tucked it into the bottom of a bag of donations for Housing Works. How can one glove, bereft of its mate, spark joy? I wagered at the time.