Title: In Our Closet
Type: Short Story
Date: November 2009
Published in the 2010 edition of Fordham University’s Kosmos Literary Magazine
In Our Closet
In our closet there is a divide, separating our two worlds like a trench. A leopard print blanket droops sleepily down from the top shelf, one arm hanging, crawling down, head first, to the rest of the dirty, discarded, laundry below, filling the mesh blue hamper in haggard disarray.
A chest of drawers is stationed inside the hanging space to allow for more living space. It has five perfectly symmetrical drawers, its tragic composition: fire proofed, faux wood. The second drawer is carelessly hanging open and a turquoise cotton tee shirt is peeping its curious eyes out at the adjacent beds. The chest of drawers is thickly cluttered by an array of different hygiene products and is congested with various artefacts of failed nights out. As of now, this city has lost the battle cry for my affection.
A vitamin bottle stands cordially with its lid off, full of pride on the very front edge of the wooden top. It guards a strapless bra and an empty sunglasses case.
The second shelf is packed as tightly as an orphanage with sweaters of cashmere and cotton. The smothered arms of an Irish wool reach out in a desperate attempt to escape from the jumbled pile of mismatched material. The tweed scarf is sitting triumphantly on top of the huddled mass, full of sheer delight as if featured on the cover of Vouge. A Eucerin bottle sits with its back to the world, angry at its lack of use, envious of the vitamins bottle’s once-a-day pleasure. It meanly displays its back description label as if to tell me frankly of its usefulness and its ability to protect my fair skin from the treacheries of the approaching winter months. I laugh at its indignation, but do cringe at the thought of my skin taking on the consistency of polyester hair.
Directly across from my apathetic perch and next to the closet, on a removable wall hook, sits my beautiful couture skirt. It hangs, and it chortles at me with ruthless fervour, “why have you gotten no use out of me?” it says with a smirk. The graceful bends of the light pink satin lounge gracefully in tethered folds. This exquisite piece of craftsmanship is the bane of my existence, as I lay here in an oversized tee shirt adorning a scene of animated sea turtles, and a pair of hot pink sweat pants clashing against my bruised ego. This bed, once a sanctuary, is now a prison, a cage to my lack of fun.
The towels in the mauve fabric bin, next to the lazy leopard blanket, are oozing like lard over the brim. They squirm and gasp for air, trying to liberate themselves from the world of our cluttered closet. If they knew the world I live in tonight they would clamber back down into the quiet haven of that mauve bin and hide away, never wishing to leave. They would sleep like kittens, wrapped in the arms of each other and never attempt this cruel escape again. They would not wish for the hopelessness of failed attempts, or dream of things unattainable. They would slumber sweetly in the cool darkness of my top shelf and live in their dreamland of endless possibilities.