More Good Words

Once in a great while I happen across a collection of words that are so damn perfect that I don't even care that I didn't write them, I'm just glad that someone did. The words below, from the end of Annie Proulx's short story Brokeback Mountain, are those kinds of words.

The shirt seemed heavy until he saw there was another shirt inside it, the sleeves carefully worked down inside Jack's sleeves. It was his own plaid shirt, lost, he'd thought, long ago in some damn laundry, his dirty shirt, the pocket ripped, buttons missing, stolen by Jack and hidden here inside Jack's own shirt, the pair like two skins, one inside the other, two in one.