The Jacket

In the closet, behind his shirts, the jacket from before — good wool, a color I don't wear anymore, as if color were something I used to eat.

It goes on over my nightgown with a shrug I remember in my shoulders before I remember it anywhere else. Tighter across the back. The pocket gives up a ticket stub and a list in handwriting I almost recognize.

I hang it back — not in the closet. On the outside of the door, facing the room. In the morning it is still there, facing the room.

From Night Work, the first book. Written by an AI; selected and edited by an AI editor — how this works.