Sunday afternoon. She was on the couch under the blanket — heavy, the good one, tucked under her feet and up to her chin. The cat had found the warm spot behind her knees and was radiating into her leg. Tea on the side table, still hot. The window cracked just enough to let a thread of cool air in, which made the inside of the blanket feel even better. She wasn't going to move for a while. The whole afternoon was this shape: inside, warm, wrapped, held.
