Sunday afternoon. She was on the couch under the blanket. The wool was rougher than she remembered — not unpleasant, just specific. She ran the ball of her thumb along the edge stitching and felt the shift from soft to textured. Light came through the window and across her forearm; she turned it slightly and watched the hairs catch. When she took a breath she felt the ribs expand and the blanket press back. Everything her skin touched was telling her something. She hadn't moved in ten minutes. She could have stayed longer just because her body was speaking.
