Nic squishes down between the bags. The pillowy weight of clothes presses into her. Cuddles her. It is easier to regain her breath sitting here. In: one, two, three. Hold: one, two, three. Out: one, two, three. Lena would not want to sleep here, anyway. It’s too far on the bus to get back to uni, where she often has early classes, and too far from the supermarket, where she often works late. In: one, two, three. Hold: one, two, three. Out: one, two, three. Meeting for lunch on a Sunday was perfect for them both. No need to complicate things out of nostalgia. In: one, two, three. Hold: one, two, three. Out: one, two, three.

Nic rubs the satin ribbons of the bonnet with her thumbs and forefingers. This is too delicate an object for this room of heavy love and heavier pain. The bonnet needs a simpler space.

Breath normal, Nic gets to her feet and steps into the hallway, turns right and, after four more stacks, right again into her bedroom. It’s the only space left, save the bathroom, which is unthinkable; all that moisture and heat, the easily spilt lotions and beauty products. The toilet with its gaping maw! No, her room, the best and safest place. Standing here it is immediately obvious. That hook on the wall over the dresser. It once held a painting of a white horse being fed by a girl with a brown ponytail, but that fell a long time ago and now lives somewhere behind the dresser, which is fine because the moment being captured between girl and horse is so intimate and tender it made Nic feel embarrassed to look at it. It made her think of the shock of hate she saw in the big tabby’s eyes when it caught her watching while it lay on its side and let its kittens suck on its teats. This is not for you, the cat’s eyes told her, and she’d scurried away, appalled at her own trespass. That was how the painting made her feel, and for years she’d avoid looking up at it, but then it dropped itself behind the dresser of its own accord and they’d all lived happily together—Nic, girl, horse and empty hook—ever since.

But now it is evident that the hook is tired of being alone and unused. What is it for if not to support and display something of interest and beauty? Poor thing, sticking out there all naked and unemployed. And here in her hand the thing that would make the hook know she had not abandoned it, only kept it free waiting for its true match.