Under Her Clothes

—where the smoke curled, the past whispered, and nothing stayed innocent for long.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a hit or two to take the edge off the night, to escape the ticking kitchen clock and the echo of a city too quiet for a Friday. But somehow we ended up in the closet—knees brushing, backs pressed against her childhood—surrounded by the artifacts of a girl still lingering beneath the surface.

She packed the one hi…