Her shopping bag goes next to the door; her keys into her coat pocket. Ivy buttons up, wondering what's keeping Harley. Usually, she slides down the banisters at the first jangle of keys, like an overexcited pomeranian ready for its walk.
Once Ivy is all bundled up, she finds Harley writhing on her (as yet unmade) side of the bed, making noises replete with effort and exertion.
"What are you doing?"
All at once, Harley deflates with a groan of relief. "I'll need a little help here," she says, pointing to a pair of impossibly tight jeans. Candy cane-striped panties peek through its open fly. The one Harley has been struggling with.
"That's all your junk food you eat," Ivy remarks, but it's not serious admonishment. Under the shirt that's at least two sizes too small, Harley's stomach is flat as a washboard.
"I think it shrunk in the wash." Harley looks crestfallen.
"Just put on a different pair."
"No way, these are my favorite!"
"Favorite or no, they no longer fit. So unless you have mushroom pieces lying around that will make you smaller, I'd suggest you choose something else to wear. Maybe we'll find you a new favorite pair."
Harley harrumphs. "After all the time it took me to shimmy into them I'm not taking them off anytime soon."
Ivy has learned not to argue with Harley about inanities. "Fine then. But put one of your long sweaters over it so you don't catch a cold."