I putdown my Earl Grey tea and try to listen to what Linda, the knitting instructor, is saying. The knit stitch made sense, but this purl business might be a little too complicated for me. My pot holder looks a little lopsided. I’m using a rich dark green yarn, but I’m fairly certain this angora blend is wasted on me. Maybe the crafty arts aren’t for me. Or maybe it could have something to do with the fact that we’re short-staffed tonight, so instead of enjoying a night off, I’m wearing my apron and covering when they need an extra set of hands.
I need to hire someone to fill the hours Willa has vacated since she’s started training to be an esthetician. I have interviews scheduled tomorrow, and I’m hoping like hell that at least one of the candidates is hirable.
“You dropped a stitch,” Marian, a woman who has to be eighty-seven and has glasses thicker than Coke bottles, whispers next to me.
I smile in thanks and try to figure out how to fix it, but I have no clue.
“Rrrrribbit!” the guttural, frog-like sound erupts from sweet little Marian beside me, and I’ve got to admit, I’m a little disturbed.
“Uh, can I get you some water?”
She just laughs and squeezes my cheek. “Silly boy. I said you need to rip it! You know, take apart the whole row. No other way to fix a dropped stitch, not for a noob like you.”
I don’t know what is more alarming. The fact that an octogenarian just called me a noob or the fact that I have to tear apart the last ten minutes’ worth of work. I sigh and get to ripping.
“You know what they say,” Sheryl, Marian’s daughter, whispers from my other side. “You only drop a stitch when your thoughts are on a special someone. Do you have a special someone?”
Practically speaking, I probably dropped a stitch because I’ve never done this before and it’s freaking hard. But as her words register, my mind wanders to Booker, which is crazy. We’re just friends. But my friends are very important to me. I’m loyal to them and protective of them. I keep my core group close and though I’m not exactly physically intimidating, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure my friends are safe and well. So, by definition, I guess Booker is someone special to me, just the way Phoebe, Willa, and Mel are.
And okay…there’s the slight difference that Booker is fucking gorgeous. His body is a work of art. He’s sweet. And kind. And funny. And if I thought about it long enough, I could easily develop a crush. But because I’m the TA for the class that practically gives him hives? Yeah, that’s probably not the best idea.
“So,” Sheryl leans in, her perfume nearly knocking me over. “Doyou have someone special? Because my divorce will soon be final, and well, I’m just saying, we could exchange numbers.”
Sweet hell. Is she coming on to me? I can honestly say getting hit on by middle-aged women is not a common occurrence for me. I’m pretty queer-presenting, so I don’t think I’ve ever been propositioned by a woman before. Well, Maddie Olsen asked me to the fall formal in eighth grade. But I had to decline since I’d already asked her brother. So, yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve had to fend off a woman’s advances.
“For God’s sake, Sheryl, he’s as gay as the day is long,” Marian tells her daughter.
“Guilty,” I smile, looking back at the bar area, relieved to see they're swamped. “Looks like they need my help on the register. Be right back.”
I duck behind the counter, wash my hands, and punch in my code. The next ten minutes go by in a blur as I check customers out and ring up drinks.
“Dude, who knew Knit Night was going to bring in such a crowd,” Mel grumbles just before starting the blender.
“Yeah, what’s with all the retirees? I mean, they’re nice and all,” Theo says, “But what made them decide a college coffee shop was the perfect place for their knit and bitch?”
I shake my head. “It’s a stitch and bitch. But yeah, they used to go to the location downtown, but we have better parking. So, here we are. Anyway, anything I can help you two catch up on?”
“Nah, go back and finish up your scarf or whatever. We’ll holler if we need you,” Theo tells me.
“It’s a pot holder,” I correct him. By the time I rejoin the circle, Linda has taken pity on me and fixed my damaged row. I smile gratefully as I do my best to match her stitches. I fail miserably but my finished product isn’t so bad. I snap a picture and send it to my younger brother.
Ian: Look what I made at Knit Night.
Luke: Damn. What is that? A scarf for a baby giraffe?
Ian: Oh my God. Why does everyone think it’s a scarf? It’s a pot holder.
Luke: That’s a very long pot holder.
Luke: Oh shit. Is that your new pick up strategy? Like you’re gonna go up to a guy in a bar and show him your pot holder?
Ian: That doesn’t even make any sense. How in the hell do you manage to date so much if that’s your idea of a pick-up line?
Luke: I’m heterosexual male. The bar is pretty low. Ladies find out I do my own laundry and that I love giving oral, and I’m all set. I’m a God among men. Literally.
Ian: Did you seriously type “giving oral”? For the love of Christ, tell me you don’t call it that when you’re with a woman.
Luke: Is that bad? I thought it was better than saying “I’m going downtown.” No?
