After all of the presents are opened, and the dinner is eaten, and the meltdowns have occurred, it's all about the itch.
The itch for that one gift you didn't get. The itch for the leftovers that are waiting in the fridge calling your name. The itch because you're in a strange house with different humidity and so your skin is dry as dust.
I prefer the second of those. Or even the first. Aoife, unfortunately, is prone to the third.
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