On a recent Thursday night, I opened my closet for the first time in almost a year. I had to push my partner’s sit-up bench, where we’d heaped towels too dirty for the clean-towel place but not dirty enough for the hamper, away from the door. Inside hung “outfits,” garments I used to wear to work or to an evening out with friends: sweaters in dark colors, the slump of a dress, a pair of tops with their long, pale sleeves twined together. My nice shoes lay under a silky, tunic-like number I’d forgotten I owned, which had slipped to the ground, like the heroine of an opera. The air bore traces of something floral, rich, and oddly threatening. I could not shake the feeling that I’d disturbed a tomb.
