Your footsteps above reminded me of dry crumbling bread. My hands snaked over a pile of familiar clothes. I matched corners of things and folded, like folding laundry was my thing. Then—a strange fabric in my hands. Stiffer. None of our clothes were stiff. I held it up—a hot pink shirt. I stared at it and sighed. I knew you weren’t cheating on me. This was not the shirt of someone you were having an affair with. This was something different. Your footsteps stopped. I walked up the basement stairs and into the kitchen. “Do you happen to know?” I said,
