Heaving her way in, birth in reverse, she guarded her mummified shins, slumping with breathless gratitude onto Frank’s threadbare footstool.
“Frank, where are you?” she wheezed, entombing herself in the wombdrobe in scrunched foetal position. Frank’s shirt cuffs stroked her cheek, welcoming her, as she pulled his dressing gown across her lap. Violet Finch wiggled, nesting herself beneath the foliage of Frank’s clothes. - from 'Cherry Stone Eggs and a Lost Reflection'