Kathryn
17
Broccoli?
Kathryn lay awake and stared at the ceiling. Janet wiggled next to her, indicating that she really ought to be fed—Spit spot. Sometimes Kathryn imagined Janet as an old upper-class British woman from the early 1900s. Set in her ways. Curmudgeonly. But lovable.
Like Dame Maggie Smith, or an older Mary Poppins.
Kathryn moved her legs under the sheets. For as down-home and hippie as she was, she allowed herself the secret pleasure of fine Egyptian cotton sheets. She once imagined that satin sheets were the ultimate in luxury and bought herself a set. Embarrassingly, her cracked and callused feet had caught on the fibers and made snaggy ripping sounds when she moved under them. Hardly sensual at all.
The high thread count of her current set of sheets caressed her cal
