Paisley is picking through her toiletries bag when something clatters to the tiled bathroom floor. Bending, I pick it up. It has a handle like a wand, and a rounded head covered in tiny nodules. “Paisley,” I smirk. “Am I holding your special friend in my hand?” She swipes the rubber tool from my grasp. “Wipe that amused grin from your lips. It’s a facial cleansing device.” Held an inch above the surface of her skin, she demonstrates by running it in concentric circles.
