There was a pink sweater on the side of the road. It hadn’t always been pink. It had, shortly before, been white. Before the fruit punch had soaked through it. “Whoops,” he said, staring down at it.
His friend sighed, a long suffering sigh that came from being his friend. “Another one?”
“That’s the problem with wearing white, man.”
“Then why do you always wear white?”
He thought about that. “Maybe I just like buying new clothes?”
“But you don’t.”
He sighed, putting his hands in his pockets as he continued to look down as his sweater. “If I did though, that would be convenient.”
“We’re getting you something less… stainable.”
He smirked. “Look who’s talking.” He sipped at the rest of his fruit punch and ignored how a drip fell down the side and landed on his shirt.