She works meticulously, inserting the tip of the needle into a small gap of wool, looping the yarn around the second needle. Her eyes never blink, they are intently focused as she purses her lips and observes the movement of the needles, as if they are quickly kissing or fighting playfully, as if they know that their destiny is inevitable to become one.

Until that nervous knitter reaches the end of her balls of yarn, yarn that will be turned into a scarf or a sweater or a hat. She didn’t care about the shape of the things that were emerging in her hands, as she’d confidently answer to anyone who asked what she was knitting.

The needles’ pace increases as she nears the end of the row. As if she wants to bypass the beginning of the awaiting vacuum. A vacuum that consumes her home and the outcroppings of her body, vindicated (or firewalled) at the end of each weekend with a partner who is owned by another woman.