The dress hangs from the passenger door handle, a swaying pendulum of teal silk …

The dress hangs from the passenger door handle, a swaying pendulum of teal silk that catches the static from her thigh with every bump in the road. She folds it first on the dashboard, smoothing the fabric against the heat vents until the wrinkles settle into the material like scars hardening over old skin. The crease at the left elbow remains stubborn, a white line where the arm bent during three hours of leaning against a stranger’s kitchen counter, holding wine glass by its stem until her knuckles whitened. She lifts the hanger from her own closet, a wire piece bent slightly to the left, and slides it through the dress’s loops. The velvet of the hanger holds the shape of her neck from last winter, now pressed against the phantom collarbone of another woman’s collarbone. It smells faintly of lavender detergent and stale cigarette smoke, a residue that clings not to the surface but woven into the weave itself. She drives with one hand on the wheel, watching the rearview mirror where her own face is grayed by window tint. The dress slips from the door handle when she brakes at a stoplight, falling into the footwell with a soft, heavy thud that vibrates through the floor mats. She retrieves it without turning, brushing lint from the hem where it touched the carpeted dust of a living room she no longer recognizes. The crease at the elbow deepens. She arrives at the house, knocks twice, and places the folded garment on the welcome mat before stepping back onto the curb. The door does not open immediately. She waits for the sound of the latch clicking, a small mechanical snap in the quiet evening air, before turning her car engine back on and pulling away into the dark.