Liz sashays into the kitchen, a shopping bag crinkling under her arm. "I bought you these," she says, "because you've been wearing those mismatched gloves with holes in them."
I slide on the mittens, and my hands turn into fuzzy paws, pink and red with a touch of gold. "I love them," I say, and hug her, patting her back with my fuzz. She laughs and shifts her eyes away, a bit embarrassed by her own generosity. "I couldn't have my roommate going around in shabby gloves," she says.
She uses the word "roommate." But I know what she means.
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