June opened
up the right side of the closet. A few crumpled shirts fell to the floor and
she hastily picked them up and stuffed them back into the closet. The division
between her side and Mina’s was clear—her side was an organized and
bureaucratic country, and Mina’s was in a constant state of warfare and
distress. She never actually looked at Mina’s side but knew this instinctively
from the refugees who occasionally tried to cross the invisible border. Today,
however, she furtively examined the citizens of Mina’s country.
She glanced article of clothing at
each one as through regarding an old friend—the yellow shorts from their first
meeting, the pink work overalls, the flowery dress from the bike ride, the sheer
black blouse, the pale green dress from the birthday party, the gold ochre
windbreaker, the paisley scarf, and the countless other fabrics that formed the
patchwork memories of the past few months. A flash of red in the back of the
closet caught her eye. Carefully pulling back a cardigan, she found a red
dress. She had never seen it in full before, but she thought back to the day it
was worn. Angrily, she stared at it, willing it to confess its secrets.
This is so absurd. I am being
ridiculous, June thought, and she did not know if she was jealous or just
lonely.
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