I had begun to price a kitchen, which is what one does when getting dressed has become a daily grievance and the true culprit has not yet been interviewed. The rail was the culprit. Garments faced six directions. A sleeve lived on the floor as if by policy.

Fifty velvet hangers returned the rail to capacity and the clothes to a single, intelligible direction. The door closes. A black top can be found without a narrative. The set.

The second cupboard received hangers in blush, because opening it had become a lowering experience. Same engineering, kinder colour. I open the door differently. That was the renovation. Those.

The joiner was never called. The kitchen, cleared of all charges, continues.