When you got home you found me in the back corner of our not-quite-walk-in-sized closet, surrounded by shoes I hadn't worn in years, clothes I should have given away long ago, and miscellaneous scarves and belts and things that I hardly remembered owning.
I hadn't planned on ending up there, but washing the dishes led to laundry, which led to vacuuming, which led to looking under the furniture, which led to me finding that pin you had given me. I wanted to see the other things you had given me. When I was beautiful and you were kind.
I'm not that girl in the red gown any more. Our children hardly talk to us, except to ask when dinner will be ready, or if they can borrow the car. They have only known us as a couple, two people whose love lingers patiently beneath the chores and exhaustion.
They can't imagine there was a time when we were strangers, and then that moment when you offered me a ride home.
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.