Last summer, my mother-in-law decided to sell her house and move to Florida. So she asked her adult kids — including my wife, Michele — to pick through their old things and trash whatever they no longer wanted. The remnants of Michele’s past apparently fit in a single large cardboard box with “MISCHA” scribbled on the top in black marker.

“What is all this stuff?” I asked, opening the box. Inside, there was mostly old CDs, videotapes and paperbacks. But there was also a black leather jacket that looked to be at least two sizes too large for Michele’s slender frame. The name “MISCHA” reappeared on the back of the jacket, in awkwardly placed rhinestones. The sexy scent of leather rose up and intoxicated me. I had to fight the urge to bury my face in the worn garment... Read More