The sort of thing that I think very little of, until it is missing.
I had a roommate in school who insisted that the belt must always match the shoes. That it served as the anchor of any outfit.
His words, for some reason, return to me as I stumble through Queens in the dark, hiking up my scrub pants.
MY belt is long gone. As are my pants and shoelaces (not to mention the shoes they once fastened). They confiscated them all at the hospital. I spontaneously moved up my check out time, not even staying long enough for the turn down service; so I didn’t have the time (nor the inclination) to stop by the nurses’ desk and ask for them back.
Travel can be stressful when you’re working with a timetable.
I think I came across this belt in a graveyard (the meds the hospital lovingly provided were still wearing off), draped over a stone of some kind and still in a pair of functional (and garish leather) pants. They were integral to my travel plans; hospital scrubs seem to catch the eye in a way that leather pants do not. Even in some parts of Queens.
Unfortunately, the belt insists upon moaning if I try to take it off. Sadly, not the type of moaning one would expect with leather pants. These are moans of profound pain and undefinable loss. It gets louder every time I undo the buckle. My nose is bleeding, now.
Leather Belt (No. 109): Hand stitched with subtle detail on overlay. One Size fits all.
Matt Greene 
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