(modified from the Nov 2012 original published on another blog)
Why would I do that? she whispered to him.
He chuckled and said nothing.
She traced the prism patterns underneath them, triangle upon triangle, reds, plums, blues stitched together. The little flowers along the edges had faded and a long rip ran along the top, the part she always tugged on when she was cold. Safety pins held it together.
As she snuggled into his shoulder, a breath escaped his nostrils, landing in warmth on top of her head.
The sun’s tickling me.