Two chairs. Queen Annes. One perfectly ordinary. But the other is actually a woman, your lover, whose body can take the shape of anything she touches. Which is she? It's a game the two of you sometimes like to play. The chairs, you think at first, are identical. But sitting in the second, the chair striped by the sunlight streaming through the tall brilliant window at the opposite end of the room, you can, after a moment, make out the almost imperceptible rise and fall of your lover's shallow respiration. The human heat of the worn blue velvet that turns pale and dark again when you run your fingers across it, like the surface of a forest lake shifting color in a stiff wind.