I returned to the quiet house and climbed the stairs to our bedroom.
The green dress was still there, tucked away where Damon couldn’t see it while he searched for his clean socks.
I opened the closet door a crack and looked at the emerald fabric gleaming in the dim light of the closet.
Every comment he made over the past week seemed to settle into the room, heavy and cold.
Lipstick jokes, pearl remarks, credit card warning.
Of course, these were just his usual jokes, but as I counted them, my hands grew cold.
I reached out and tucked the dress deeper into the corner, behind the winter coats, where the shadows were deepest.
Then I closed the closet door, leaving the green dress hidden in the darkness.
The steam from the iron smelled of starch and hot metal. I ran the silver plate of the iron across the sleeve of Damon’s white shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles.
