Greg paused for a moment, looking reverently off into space. "Mmm, buttery shortbread," he said. Then he continued, "Well, the thing of it is, those things are super-bad for you, you know? So I decided I would wait and just have one of them after dinner yesterday, and left them in the pantry. But knowing the cookie was there, waiting for me to have whenever I might desire it, left me with such a warm and happy glow that by the time dinner rolled around, I felt much better and ended up not eating the cookie after all. They're both still sitting there, little pastry talismans, their warm-fuzzies power cheering me up even now. It's amazing."
"Sorry," mumbled Brigid, coming from the kitchen and wiping shortbread from the corners of her full mouth. "Did you say something? Mmm, that was good." She tossed the cookie wrapper into the trash can.
Greg blinked and finally said, "Me? No, not a word. Must have been your imagination."
"Huh. I could have sworn you said something about fuzzy talismans."
"That doesn't even make sense. Perhaps you're going mad," Greg replied.
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