We would believe. Today and yesterday and next week and last year and ten years down the road. That our secrets remain stitched to the undersides of our finest coats. That our shirts betray no faded ink and our pristine gloves absorb no nervous sweat. We would believe the creases in our trousers maintain stiff lines and hang without crumpled knees. But your beating heart will pucker your left breast pocket, and my lungs will burst buttons that clatter over the tabletop. This conversation will tumble like a pile of dirty socks we lost and left unfolded.