You go out in the evening, when glass, stone, and even the worst decisions begin to look softer. On you, plum turns deep, while milky white and lilac gather the light into pale waves; from a distance, the knit looks almost like foam. To the touch, it is slightly dry and holds its shape well. Poets called the moon soft. From that distance, it is easy to be mistaken.
One arm remains bare, while the other is covered to the elbow by a wide short sleeve. Plum, milky white, grey, and lilac stripes curve as you move; the edge rises and falls again. A second sleeve like this would have turned the whole thing into an ordinary sweater.
On you, the top looks softer than it feels. Much the same could be said about you.
After the heat of the day, the streets still hold warmth, while the air has already turned cooler. Plum darkens almost to ink, milky white takes on a cooler cast, and lilac blends into grey. You walk slowly. Tonight, you have no reason to hurry.
You adjust your hair, and the wide edge lifts away from your arm for a moment. The stripes change their curve, then settle back into place. The matte yarn catches no glints at all, but the colours grow deeper as daylight fades.
Next time, you wear the top back to front. Plum and the lighter sections change places, and the pattern looks different. Another time, you wear it inside out: the slightly dry knit becomes a little more textured. Seen up close, the surface of the moon turned out not to be smooth either.
By midnight, a white moon appears above the rooftops. It still looks soft. You smile and keep walking without quickening your pace.