The narrator of Meehan’s story is visiting a friend whose home is not exactly warm and loving. There’s a slow ratcheting up of the stress level in this story that I love:

I don’t like your house; too many traps. Gleaming brass handles I might smudge, clear plastic runner I might trip over, perfect cushions I might ruffle, Ainsley vases I might topple, glossy tiles my filthy shoes might spoil, velvet wallpaper my damp jacket might blemish. Your mother has said it all to me, not about the cushions though, but I’ve seen her watching.