I laid on my lama skin bed cover while Gabriela was leaving me a cup of tea on the bedside table and telling me her story of domestic violence.  I felt too privileged for a moment, almost ashamed, but she didn't seemed to notice. Here it was me, taking a sick-day off from work and reading the Wall Street Journal while playing with my soft alpaca skin; and there she was, tired of cleaning the apartment and ready to take the 1-hour train ride to Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn. She stood by my bed and talked about her boricua ex-husband, her three kids and how she manages to pay for the bills working night shifts at Penn Station's Kentucky Fried Chicken.