“I’m approaching slowly. The broom is in my hands again. Three feet away. Two . . . lowering the broomstick, annnnnd . . . a gentle poke,” Farrah’s voice whispers as the broom handle nudges me in the side. “Poke, poke, poke.” “You don’t have to say ‘poke’ while you poke,” I say, voice muffled as I lie flat on the couch, my face buried in a throw pillow. “I can feel it.” “Wasn’t sure.” She continues to poke. “You’ve been lying like that for the past half hour, and before that, you were sitting with your legs spread and your hand down your pants. What do I do with that?”
