She is fascinated by the clothes hanging, nearly dry, on the clotheshorse. Clothes you hung there earlier today.

Your familiar black t-shirt (her mother bought it for you) hangs in front of all the other clothes, almost as if you are there, dangling upside down to make her laugh. She thinks of how the fibres of that t-shirt would normally sit so close to your skin’s warmth, borrowing your smell.

On the lower rungs, your socks retain something of the shape of your absent feet. The socks, like the feet they keep warm, are big and wide and often spend time inside sneakers or running shoes.

The pants hanging behind the t-shirt also leave clues about their wearer. They are worn in places and the fabric is soft: you are someone who has favourites.

Her clothes too are there. Nestled up next to yours are her t-shirts, socks and underwear. She imagines you hanging them, your face serious as you concentrate.

She leaves the room, not wanting to disturb your clothes while they quietly enjoy each other’s company. She wonders that you two can be together is this room while you are really absent from here and from each other. She smiles as she closes the door behind her.

You tell her that she thinks about the future so much that you worry she’s not making the most of the present. Sometimes she thinks you might be right.

But the reason for her near constant tea leaf-reading is thus: she wants the weight of your years together, of the memories, to feel like immersion in an ocean, the enormous body of water blocking her ears, nose and mouth; pressing on her skin, forcing her body close to implosion. The currents that make the waves on the surface also rock her gently to and fro, and the light from surface creates hanging beads like the ones bought in Asian grocery stores and two-dollar shops.

She looks forward to being able to look back from this place. In preparation she is trying to grow gills.