Tabitha sat at the two-person round table in James Harbash’s tiny eat-in kitchen, staring into the ceramic cup cradled in her hands. The mug was filled to the brim with black coffee, dark and aromatic, precisely as she typically preferred. But that preference had unmistakably changed.
Tabitha crossed her tiny arms across the flatness of her chest. She hated how all her dresses now hung awkwardly, making her feel like he was wearing drapery.
Hey Greg!
Maybe "like she was" not "like he was" below?
Tabitha crossed her tiny arms across the flatness of her chest. She hated how all her dresses now hung awkwardly, making her feel like he was wearing drapery.