“...are often a delight.” -Gabrielle Zevin

J’s mother makes me a sandwich and cuts off the crusts and leaves out the cheese because she knows I can’t have dairy. She helps me do my taxes and says eight times that teaching is a noble profession and every compliment—my leggings, my hairstyle, my sensible second job—lands like an arrow in the ten ring. She remembers the names of both my ex and current boyfriends and asks after their mothers. She hugs me when I leave and sends me a small tchotchke for my birthday, a tiny glass pumpkin that glows on the windowsill, because she remembers I like Cinderella’s coach better before it transforms.

Before J goes home she stands at the sink in our apartment, meticulously removing every speck of nail polish. When she leaves, her cuticles are a little red, a little raw, ten less targets.