“What?” she says, twirling around like a spider has just dropped onto her forearm from above.

“That. Right there.”

“Stop it, what?”

“Honey, that. Right there on your …”

“Where?” She jerks about again, backing toward me and swinging her head over to get a look. Straining.

“It’s right there …”

To be fair, the little clump rests just out of her eyeshot. It would take a courageous twist to the right, then a glance back into a mirror to get a look at where I’m pointing. Which she does.

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that. There. What is it?”

“I’ve always had that.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have. Of course I have. Since I was a kid.”

“Come on, seriously.”

“I think I know my own body.”

“Sure, of course, but … that has not always been …”

“It has! Stop it now, we have to get ready.”

And with that she pulls on this flimsy tank top—some kind of silky Anne Klein thing that is no doubt expensive and made by unfortunate people in another country somewhere and an essential wardrobe item for today’s woman—but it’s got no arms on it. Or “sleeves”—whatever you call them. None. I’m fighting my bare feet into a pair of driving moccasins when I realize this and casually try to steer the conversation back to the subject at hand.

“Did you get your hair styled or something?”

“No, why?”

“No reason. It just seems …”

“What?”

“I dunno. It’s lying on your shoulders differently, maybe that’s it.”

“That’s what? What’re you going on about?”

“I’m just asking.”

She stops suddenly, really studying me for the first time all morning. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Umm, no reason. No, it’s fine.”

“I like this shirt.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Fine, I’ll change.” I can see where this thing is going and there is absolutely no chance of winning, none, and so it’s back to the walk-in I go. I call out from deep in the “short sleeve” section, just down from “sweatshirts” and “sportswear.” “What about a light yellow stripe?”

“That’s OK, if it’s the canary one. Or just white, and then throw a sweater over your shoulders.”