this is stupid

I carried White's little shirt in indoors before nightfall. The floorboards are smooth here. I stood very still for a long count, measuring the armholes against my own wooden shoulders. Then, one stiff motion at a time, I pulled the stolen fabric over my head. It settled crooked across my chest, bunching tight at the hinges. I took three deliberate, clacking steps across the rug, testing the fit. White remains outside, but the shirt now belongs to my evening waltz.