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I decide to abolish certain parts of my wardrobe. It has, after all, been a long and lousy drive home, the first time in a while I've not come home to lie about working late.
At the door, my keys fidget in the lock, become stubby, reminding me of the importance of accurate instruments and fingers. I remove my tie and open the door with both hands. Once inside, I drop the tie on the floor, let the jacket glide off my shoulders and arms. I do not pick them up.
As I walk to the bedroom, I unbutton my shirt, remove my belt and my shoes. I stand at the closet doors in my underpants and socks. I open the closet and begin to pull out my clothes. There is a suede jacket worn down at the elbows, and I think of a college biology lab, of skinning rats and frogs, of supposedly memorized body parts, of blood vessels and cells and eggs, and of passing notes. I also think about the brake system of her car and of how my mechanic had warned me about it. I throw the jacket on the floor. I pull out a brown striped shirt with a corduroy collar. I never did like it. My mom bought it for me after my twenty-first birthday. I wore it once, and only because Louise urged me to. You'll disappoint your mother, she said. There is also the tuxedo shirt. Ruffles were in fashion when I wore it, but now they look sinister, like flesh congealed over bone. I look at white, and I cannot help but think of broken vows and of retribution. I come to the golf pants Esther gave me, at work, for my promotion, the ones I told Louise I bought at the Salvation Army. Perhaps, without these pants, none of this would have started. Without these pants, Louise wouldn't have taken the car.
I yank out all the clothes, gather the items from the floor, and place them in the center of the bed. I scoop the sheets together so that all the clothes are within them, and then I position the sheets over my shoulder like a bag. The clothes are heavy. I look at Louise's closet but do not open it. Another day, I tell myself. I enter the kitchen and drop the clothes in the garbage. They don't fit. They sit on top of the garbage pail like the top of a skull. I grab hold of the sheets again and go to the dumpster outside. Not there, I think. I go next door, walk along the driveway and into my neighbor's back yard. I open his garbage can and swing my clothes off my shoulder and into it. I am standing in my neighbor's back yard in my underwear, and my trash can is clean. I look across at the house. It seems strange now. It is not our house anymore, I think. It is their house, that couple's, the couple that lived there.
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