Shirts

"Where is it?"
He was standing in front of the open wardrobe looking at his shirts. There were almost fifty in total, every one of them grey and completely identical in every single way.
"Where's what, dear?" his wife asked sleepily from the comfort of the bed.
"My shirt."
She sat upright, put on her glasses and turned to face him.
"You've got lots of shirts, dear."
"But my favourite one isn't there."
"They're all the same, dear."
"This one isn't, it's my favourite. It's got that thing in the seam across the shoulder."
He touched his shoulder to emphasise this, just in case his wife didn't know what a shoulder was.
"Oh you wouldn't understand anyway," he raged and exited the room.