Her mouth fell flat open. She set her coffee down and pressed one palm to her racing heart. She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before. She didn’t know how she’d missed this detail, so glaringly obvious now that it stared her in the face.

In John’s neat, organized closet hung three crisply white button-downs. There, on a hanger, was his single midnight blue tie. Folded up on a pants hanger hung two pairs of black slacks. To the right were three small shelves where perhaps ten T-shirts were neatly folded, along with two or three pairs of leisure or workout pants and two pairs of shorts. On the ground was one pair of nice leather sneakers, one pair of running shoes and one pair of sandals that she could not, for the life of her, picture him wearing.

There were two more drawers where she imagined his underwear and socks to be, and she did not investigate to verify. She’d invaded his privacy enough. Mary stuffed her towels into the hamper and closed the door of his closet.

It was so clear to her now. God, she felt so stupid. And she’d internally accused him a million times of being judgmental! John didn’t dress this way because he was elitist and boring. He didn’t wear the same pair of wingtips every day because he was clinging to the wingtip brotherhood that Mary had cruelly imagined him to be a part of. No. He dressed this way because he was a public defender and living in New York City on a public defender’s salary, and didn’t have money to burn on shoes and clothes and frivolity.

Mary looked down at the colorfully printed Diane von Furstenberg dress that she wore. Swishy, loud, flowery print. She’d bought it one day on a whim, because she’d felt like shopping. And then she’d judged John because he wore black and white every day.

Black and white never went out of style. They always made him look professional. He could wear it to work, on a date and, yes, even to a block party if he didn’t mind looking a little overdressed. He wasn’t boring. He was practical. And Mary wanted to kiss him for it.

JOHN KNOCKED ON his own door, still in his pajamas. He had his work shoes in one hand and yesterday’s work clothes folded under his arm. He didn’t particularly want Mary to see him in his faded blue pajama pants and undershirt, but he also hadn’t wanted to change back into yesterday’s clothes either. Maybe she’d be in her pajamas still and he wouldn’t have to feel so bad.