In the Closet

If walls could talk I would have told him to go out. Go out and let them see him. See him in all the joy, pomp, colour and glory. See him fabulous. See him authentic. 

I don't know where he lives now, but I imagine he chose a place with a bigger closet. That's what I heard him constantly say when he brought in new stuff and struggled to comfortably find space for them. 

"Damn, I need a bigger closet!" 

I always wanted to say " No! they need to see you in them. You can't keep hiding them in here. They deserve to be seen!"

He arranged his clothes, shoes, purses, earrings and other items based on their colours. He started with the indigos then the reds, the greens, then the black, then the checked, flowered…

" I'm not gonna arrange them like the rainbow. That would be too cliche…" he said out loud when he initially moved in. 

He was an extremely neat man. He was also the kind of guy that talked to himself. I found it very entertaining, next to his fashion shows whose audience I was always eager to be. He had placed a large rectangular mirror on me with dim faint pink lights surrounding it. 

On many Friday evenings, he would come in holding a glass of wine, pull down his already loose tie, rip off his dark suit, shirt and socks, sit down on the dressing table and admire his beautiful clothes and accessories. Their corners being huge contrasts. 

Damn, I hate that costume!" he would complain kicking the sweaty work clothes he had thrown on the floor. 

He would run his fingers through the colourful clothes on the hangers. Sometimes he would pull some and place them on his body while they were still on the hanger and look at himself in the mirror.

It's as though a switch would be lit and the sulky, dull man that had walked in tired after a week of work would disappear. 

Occasionally, he would step out to refill his glass. When he came back, his phone would be blasting some loud music. A few more sips of his drink and the fashion show would begin. 

He would select several items, match them on the dressing table and then wear them. He would strut like a model from end to end in the closet while swinging his wrists like a diva. Sometimes he would trip in his 6 inches and fall. He would stand up laughing and keep strutting. Nothing could stop that party. When he reached the mirror, he would pose. Often he would take pictures and sit down to admire them. He would smile as he swiped. 

He always tried the tight snake pants, pink shirt and lilac fur scarf combo. 

" Damn, I look as hot as fuck!" he would say out loud. 

He would blow kisses at his reflection. He would also come closer to the mirror and kiss the reflection looking back at him. 

Sometimes he would place his head on it and look straight into his eyes. Sadness would be filled in them. He would fall to his knees and sob especially when he had refilled his glass a few more times. 

" Only you know my secret," he would tell his reflection with tears running down his face, "Only you…Nobody knows. Only you…"

I remember the weekend he pulled his suitcases from the shelves above and carefully packed his items. On occasion, he would get distracted and try on some that he would seem surprised to have come across. It's as though he had forgotten about them. 

I remember him acknowledging me one last time. It's actually the only time he did in the four years he lived in that apartment. He is the only human who ever did in the three decades since my building. 

It's like he knew I was always watching. 

"Closet it's a wrap! It's time for me to move out now. We had good times right?" he chuckled, "I thank you for keeping my babies safe and I hope the ones coming in next will be as fabulous as mine!"

And with that, he left. I never saw him again. 

I just hope wherever he is, his fabulosity doesn't get to ust it in the closet. And most importantly, I am glad he felt safe enough to be his true self when enclosed by us four.