How silk scarves started a friendship

My friend LN is quite pregnant. She moves with languid awkwardness as she struggles to maintain control of a body no longer hers. She is a uterus with legs, I think to myself sometimes, slightly appalled. Obviously, I've never been pregnant. And yet she glows with health, this woman: hair, skin and nails all have this impossible sheen, so that while she seems like a fatted calf, she also looks like a glossy purebred animal. A horse, with dainty fetlocks and a big barrel.

LN and I were talking about how we became friends, about what drew us together, inspite of our mutual aversions to developing intimate friendships with co-workers. "At first glance you seemed so ordinary, I hardly noticed you. You sure know how to hide your light under a bush," she said with her big Texas grin.

It wasn't until she gave me a ride home one night that our friendship started in earnest. I invited her in, because she'd heard me talking about how much I liked my place. She said she really liked the energy, and she'd forgotten how restful and comfortable a home can be when you don't have to worry about everything being 'child-proof'. She marvelled at my wine stock, liked my idea of putting a string of lights with coloured paper lanterns inside the firegrate, and was floored by the ornately carved 4-part teak screen that I had found leaning against a dumpster.
We moved on to my bedroom, which she loved, of course, with the beaded canopy draped over the teak bed and tempurpedic mattress, all the bookshelves, the eclectic asian/scandinavian influence, and the coat-stand draped in scarves.

"You rarely wear these," she said as she ran some through her hands.
Something impish in me made me say, "I wear them mostly in bed..."
She looked up in surprise and I met her eyes, and a dialogue began, and we learned just how much we had in common.

Oh yes... quite a lot in common.