You step out at that hour when the stone still holds the day’s warmth and the first streetlamps are already adding gold to everything they can reach. The evening had intended to be quiet. Until you arrived.
The black knit traces the silhouette, at times becoming denser, at times opening into lacework at the waist, the side, and the back. Light passes through the pattern and disappears into the black. The yarn is soft, the top is light; it allows you to move and laugh precisely when a serious expression would have been more appropriate.
One shoulder is bare. Over the other lies a silver-and-gold drape, falling in a loose fold to the elbow.
The silver catches the cooler flashes; the gold grows deeper in warm light. With every step the folds change, the shimmer scatters and gathers again. Midnight will descend on the city later. On your shoulder it is already shimmering in silver and gold.
The hood surrounds your face with black shadow. On an old icon there would certainly have been a halo nearby. Yours slipped onto your shoulder and began shining there in silver and gold. You did not trouble yourself to put it back.
The drape can be shifted to the other shoulder. The top can also be worn back to front: the hood remains, while the neckline, the lacework, and the drape fall differently. Old icons had a single canonical angle. You have several.
By midnight the black becomes almost invisible, while the gold and silver catch every lamp. You choose the longer way home.
The saint loves beautiful streets. The sinner does not believe in short roads. You will return home late. Punctuality, as far as you know, has never been counted among the chief virtues.