You’ve Gotta Be Knitting Me

Marge put nimble spiders to shame. She had never dropped a stitch, despite all her years knitting. Even with these clumsy, thick fingers, she coaxed yarn into textiles as a maestro coaxes soundwaves into symphonies.

Shelly cleared her throat. “Margie dear, the knitting circle has moved on. It’s time for our crochet club.” Her sweet voice was aspartame, not sugar. “I know it can be difficult to keep track of things as you get older.”

“It’s so sweet of you to look out for me,” Marge replied without looking up. “I really do think of you as a mother figure.” She continued her entrelac shawl.

Shelly’s smile slipped briefly. “You’re welcome to join us, if gripping a new tool doesn’t aggravate your arthritis.”

“Oh, I don’t want to impose. And I worry crochet won’t be my cup of tea.” Now she locked eyes with Shelly, still producing stitch after stitch.  “I’ve never been one for simple activities where you can turn off your brain.”

The other women gasped. A nearby nurse stifled a chuckle.

“Oh, I’m sure counting your stiches would be plenty challenging,” Shelly said with a sneer.

Marge reached the end of her row and began to pack up her needles and yarn. Shelly and the other crocheters shared a look of triumph.

“I’ll get out of your way,” Marge said, smiling. “After all, I never did like hooking.”

She could hear the old bats chittering and huffing as she strode away smirking. Of all the names K’nith’xaam had born through the millennia, she found herself enjoying “Marge” the most.