There they were. Curtains. Striped and maroon. Plain and blue. Folded and draped straight. Covering my view of the world. Protecting me from all those who wanted to judge, to look and distort.
They moved with the wind, the slow rhythmic hum of the elctric fan. They shook and resisted, told people that I was dark. That I liked corners and living in my little cubicle. They hung from wooden bars, with rings and rusty hooks. They gathered dust and they were forgotten and unchanged.
Someone moved them. The sunshine crept in. The air escaped and so did all the secrets.