At Grift & Sift, Chapter 7


“It looks like a Keith shirt,” I said to my husband. The lank fabric, the print.

We might have your shirt, I told Keith at church. He didn’t bat an eye. Later, a different Sunday, when Paulson had the shirt on, I pointed it out to Keith. No, said Keith, not his.

The denim skirts, too. I bring home one after another—there’s always some picayune problem (the trouble is really my body). Was the skirt Sue’s? The thought flickers (not naggingly), because I’ve seen Sue at church in denim. Crazy, I know. I’ve never asked—we’ve rarely spoken—and just the suggestion could make her queasy, if she takes her clothes personally. But then she wouldn’t be passing them on to the destitute, either.

 


 

 

 

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