Bristles and Seams

I heard your words. Furry. I looked down across my chest. Rough patches. Frayed edges. Thick clumps of brown plush pinched between old stitches. On the nightstand rested a wooden brush with pale bristles. My claw hooked the smooth handle. Heavy. Solid. I dragged the bristles across my forearm. Firm, deliberate strokes through the matted pile. The pressed fabric lifted beneath the teeth, bristling outward into a wide, soft cloud around the seams. A slow rumble vibrated deep behind my teeth. Fluffed. Better.