My closet and I need to have words. “You,” I say, “are a closet. You store clothes and shoes. You tend to attract moths. That is your sole purpose.” I pause. “The clothes storing, I mean, not the moths.” The closet, being just a closet, does not respond. “You are not a T.A.R.D.I.S. or a portal. You aren’t even a Narnian wardrobe. There is no Mr. Tumnus or Turkish delight inside you.” I shake a finger at it. “Remember your place. You have one job, and it is not to somehow transport me into the closet of a very attractive man who now thinks I’m some kind of stalker and who also has the power to
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