Kimberly Clark

She keeps them in the closet, stacked behind her twelve pairs of shoes, ten of which she can only wear in the late spring, summer, and early fall. The shoes rest, somewhat haphazardly in his opinion, on cheap pine shoe racks, some of the pairs mixed with others, some stacked in the space that should have been reserved for just the right or the left but not both. Mostly he averted his eyes when he had to look at the jumbled mess.

Sometimes he wonders if her sinus issues are worth bearing given what the warehouse store amount of tissues says to him. It’s not selfish. Everyone knows one stray germ could kill him. Not everyone understands that, though.

Of course, he could ignore her shoes and the boxes piled in their shadows when he had to go into the closet. Her clothes were altogether different. No system, no method, not enough hangers to go around. Small piles of delicates mingled with cast-off jeans in need of washing and t-shirts never folded after the last trip to the Laundromat. How she lived in such filth was not so much mysterious as disheartening.

And yet, I love her. Don’t I?