On the second floor of the house, up the stairs, to the left, and through the double doors, there was an enormous closet. Gigantic in size. Like a hotel room. Even if you stood with your arms straight out to your sides with double twirling batons in both hands you wouldn’t you be close to the walls. They would be a dozen double batons away. Every time I walked into the closet, I felt like the whole world must be so much bigger than I realized. If a room like this could be made just for shoes and dresses and custom watches, what else were people creating? Limitless possibility. I would stand at the entryway and forget where I was going.

My bad boyfriend liked to go inside and leave his things on the floor. He would drop his homework and his laundry. Like the gorgeous closet was a garbage can. I saw him go in there with a bag of chips one time and the chips never came back. He didn’t care about the custom shelving or the sheer magnitude of space available to him. He was a bad boyfriend, a careless one.

One time when the boyfriend was downstairs heating up pot stickers I said I was going to change into pajamas upstairs. Then I went to the closet. It was intimidating in stature and I actually dropped my head when I got there, like maybe the doors were judging my entry. But I pushed them open and walked inside.

What a scene. There was trash all over the place, a cell phone charger lodged into a pair of hundred dollar shoes, a soda can tipped over onto the carpet, tee-shirts and socks sprawled everywhere. Some of the shelves had a few shoes or folded clothes, but many were just empty, like no one needed them.

I’d met my boyfriend a year before and he was someone that played the game of love and escape. Like, he’d say I was an angel and then disappear for a week. The spark caught me initially and when I saw his house, his three-storied family mansion and four-car garage, I was more entangled. I felt like really fine jewelry when we were together.

Looking around the closet, I wondered who was worse. Sure, he stood for nothing, but here I was trying to run his campaign anyway. I’d been dead-set on being his designated girl. But what would I do with the authority? Rally for the right to promote glorious homes and their luxurious spaces?

I spread out my arms in the closet because I knew it could be the last time I got to be there. And then I tossed the emergency ladder through the window and climbed down the side of the house. My boyfriend was at the microwave, pushing food onto a plate, a dish he would probably leave next to a pair of shoes upstairs. I wished I could bring the closet with me.