Secrets are locked up everywhere

Upstairs in the walk in closet off of our master bedroom

(which is only party a master bedroom because, when the house was designed and sent around the united states of america like all the other sears homes of its particular model, our masterbedroom was supposed to be a sleeping porch),

behind the row of floppy collared shirts that i have collected at thrift stores all over the state of michigan,

down next to the floor, where i keep a line of shoes that i rarely wear because most of them barely fit me, but looked fiercely hip when I impulse bought them (also at musty cluttered thrift stores all across the state of Michigan),

There is a small two foot by two foot door. It is a door only because there is a knob in the center of it. It is not a door because it does not open. Did not open.

When we arrived in the house ten years ago, before we had started to buy it on time and based on the repairs that we did, I happened to notice that there was a very small piece of paper, college ruled, carefully ripped, written neatly:

"never open this."

And then taped over and over, carefully to the door with packing tape.

so last week, i was drunk and so mad that I couldn't imagine my life going forward more than a week, tops longer than it already had. and I knew once I blew out the thirty seven candles that Brittany lit thinking that candlelight could forgive a lot more than love handles and cottage cheese thighs, I knew that once those suckers were out, my imagination toward the future would halve its life expectancy, so in this state:

I opened the door.

I used a putty knife to scrape through the layers and layers of caulking and rubber and glue that sealed the "door" to its place. (Did I mention that it was hardly a door because it really, really, truly did not want to open.)

There was a point during the cutting that I thought to myself:

I'm so Drunk and I love this SO much because its such a fruitless TAsk that I might just disapPEar into nothing if I just KEep CHIPping awAY at such a fruitless TASK. If I PUT enough of myself into this ridiculous Cutting, then i might DIS appEAR Evetually.

(I noticed that I was thinking in words not feelings because of the way the words helped me leverage my body behind each cut.)

"What are you doing?" Brittany whined from the bed in the master bedroom outside of the closet which was too cold to be a master bedroom because there were no heat ducts into a sleeping porch, and it was absurd that we were trying to pretend that this porch was something it wasn't. We and the last seven owners. Maybe eight. The place was built in 1921.

When I got the door open there was a blast of cold air. I thought.

So. They didn't want me to open it because of the insulation.

And I was string in at the rafters seperated by an ancient looking insulation

...when she came around the corner. She was a very small woman. Not a dwarf or an elf though she was wearing clothes from the Victorian Era. It was more like she had been shrinking over the last couple of centuries than that she had born as a "little person" or with any kind of genetic predetermination of her height.

You could take a very convincing picture of her next to someone who was, say 5'10", only convince her to stand three steps closer to the camera, and then you would be able to trick the camera completely. Because she looks like a person who was 5'8" but gradually got smaller. She has curles and hair that doesn't really have any color.

I left the "door" ajar, and I check every couple of hours when I'm not at the office. She's still in there even though she could come out.

Remember multiple choice tests? She's like a single answer to a multiple-question-test:

A. How did a portal between strangely seperate realms come to exist in my walk in closet?

or

B. How did some clever trickster lure his diminuitive immortal girlfriend up to this closet before he got even with her for being so much better than him?

or

C. How long can a drunken buzz last after you sober up? Aren't there limits to the amount of time that hallucinations can STICK after they no longer fit into the grid of what you expect?