At top of each page is a job title, often misspelled. Under each heading is a want ad for that job, neatly torn from a newspaper. Piles of 45-rpm jazz records tile the ground underneath. The entire back of the room is carpeted with a 7-inch thickness of coats and dresses. Piles of pumps and shower shoes sit footless.
Wire hangers droop with the weight of soggy garments.
Under a cold, wet pile of rot I discover an unmailed letter from a woman named Grace. It's a response to a letter from a friend. The eight-page letter, written in pencil, tells of Grace's stay in the hospital. Then it quickly shifts into her traumatic history with her abusive and adulterous husband. So long for now, as ever, Grace.