Wear the shirt, touching yourself where the hole is several times an hour, absently, deliberately.
Ask women of a certain age for safety pins, admiring the outstretched feet the slightly hunched backs as they rake the bottom of their bags.
Listen solemnly as they exclaim:
So many pens!
Make them pin it on.
Wipe the top of your dresser with the shirt, balled up but warm from your skin, your tired armpits.
The outline of your fingers in dust on the shirt.
The frayed thread.
Decamp to a nice hotel. (Drunk, intimidated by the clean room, the dirty mattress.)
Open the travel kit on the bed like it was a tray of sterilized instruments stolen from a hospital and you were about to take a kidney from an immigrant.
Stab yourself a few times with the needle, artfully tangle the thread, bleed.
Take the mess to a co-worker.
Recoil from her sharp eyes.
Set up your tripod. Sew the shirt while still wearing it. Post the video to youtube.
Two words: long ties.
Visit co-habitating friends wearing the shirt and a charmingly wistful expression. Hold your stomach in while your shirt is being mended and you stand barechested in the kitchen, reading the grocery list posted on the fridge.
The woman leaning over your shirt. ..
Rip the shirt into thin strips. Eat the shirt, strip by strip. Save the loose button for last.