Two

THE REMINISCENCE HAD revived the dull ache of loss that still resided in my chest. I took a long pull on the beer, hoping it would numb the pain. God, I still missed him . . . but I had done the right thing. Sure, I could have stayed, but I would have had to sacrifice everything I’d wanted since I was a little girl. No, Colin was an immature commitment-phobe and I deserved better. One day, in the future, I’d be walking hand in hand with my stable and distinguished husband, pushing Emma in her stroller while Jack waved from his father’s backpack. Colin would pass by, probably on a skateboard or riding a bicycle with no helmet, and my decision to move on would be reaffirmed. But for now, it still really hurt.

I supposed, in theory, meeting some new people and taking up a new hobby was a good idea, but in reality, I just wasn’t ready. Perhaps a few more weeks of wallowing in self-pity would see me ready to rejoin the rest of the world? Rolling off the couch, I crawled across the floor to Kendra’s stereo. Propped next to her towering rack of CDs (largely composed of the divas: Céline, Mariah, Whitney...) was a small case containing my own measly stash. I slid The Cure into the CD player, and lay back on the floor.

Rolling over to take a sip of beer, I let the plaintive, melancholy notes wash over me. It felt good to give in to the pain, to stop pretending that I was okay. Tears were building behind my closed lids, and I let them spill, untouched, down my cheeks. Oh god. Why couldn’t he have loved me enough to change? Whyyyyy? Just as I was really getting into it, I heard Kendra’s key in the lock. Shit! I jumped up, nearly spilling the remnants of my beer in my haste to turn off the stereo. I didn’t like to look too “at home” when Kendra was around. This was her apartment, after all . . . and her stereo. Frantically, I swiped at my tears.

“Hi,” I said, with forced cheerfulness as she strode into the room. Was it my imagination, or did her eyes dart quickly around the apartment to ensure I hadn’t touched, used, or rearranged any of her belongings?

“Hi.” She dropped her purse and a Nordstrom Rack shopping bag on the floor, and proceeded to curl up on the couch in an unmistakably feline pose. Despite being what you’d call a husky girl, Kendra was remarkably agile.

“So . . . how was your aunt?” Not that I was particularly interested in the well-being of Kendra’s elderly aunt whom she had just met for coffee, but I still felt the need to make polite conversation with my roommate.

Kendra chuckled, as if at some private joke. “Oh, Aunt Helen . . . she’s such a character.”

“Really?” I prompted, hoping for some sort of elaboration, but Kendra was no more forthcoming. She picked up the remote control and, turning on the TV, began flicking, uninterestedly, through the channels. “So . . .” I made another attempt at conversation, indicating the Nordstrom Rack bag. “Did you find anything good?” Shopping at the Rack was like an extremely competitive treasure hunt. If you were aggressive enough, you could find some incredible bargains amidst the heaps of discounted merchandise. I’d once found a gorgeous Dolce & Gabbana jacket for eighty dollars.

“I did!” She leaned over the arm of the couch and dug in the bag to display her purchase. “I found this.” She extracted a plastic-wrapped square of fabric.

“What is it?”

“It’s a new cover for the ironing board,” she said gleefully. “It’s so darling. It has little acorns on it. I can’t wait to do some ironing!”

“Uh . . . me either!”

Kendra rolled back into her catlike position. “I’m so exhausted. After coffee at Pike Place Market I walked all the way to—” Suddenly, she sat bolt upright. She had spied the near-empty beer bottle at my side. “Have you been drinking?”

“Uh...” Kendra sounded so shocked! Appalled! As if she’d just noticed I had a syringe hanging out from between my toes. I felt so . . . ashamed. “I’ve suffered a great loss,” I wanted to explain. “Colin was my soul mate, my future . . . I’m just giving myself a few more weeks to wallow in my grief and then I’ll move on.” But something told me Kendra wouldn’t understand. Though she was thirty-six, she didn’t seem to have suffered many emotionally painful breakups.

“I w-was just watching some football,” I lied. “I always enjoy a beer while I watch football . . . They just seem to go together, you know,” I chuckled, “beer and football . . . ham and eggs... Donny and Marie . . .”

Kendra said nothing, but her expression clearly indicated that she did not consider this a valid excuse for solo afternoon drinking. She sighed heavily and eased herself off the sofa. “There’s nothing on TV. I’m going to watch a DVD.” The bottom third of Kendra’s towering CD rack held her collection of movies. She sat cross-legged in front of it, painstakingly making her selection. “What am I in the mood for?” she mumbled to herself. “Hmm . . . How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days? ... The Notebook? . . . Ah! Here we go . . . An oldie but a goodie: Titanic.”

Oh god, not Titanic. I sat awkwardly on the floor as Kendra placed the DVD in the player. Of course, it was the perfect wallowing movie. I could weep, unabashedly, as the poor people locked in the ship’s belly accepted their watery deaths. I could bawl and pound my pillow as Leo slipped, hypothermic, into the Atlantic. But in my current state of mind, I wasn’t sure I’d even make it through Céline’s chest-thumping theme song.

My roommate pressed the play button and settled back into her prone position on the couch. With her eyes affixed to the opening credits, I took a moment to study her, undetected. Kendra was one of those rare women who had absolutely no need for male companionship. She wasn’t a man-hater per se, but she seemed to regard the opposite sex with something approaching... disdain. To Kendra, men were on a par with the pigeons that continually pooped on our balcony, or those tiny green worms you find in organic broccoli. They were annoying, but nothing to obsess over. She certainly didn’t crave love and commitment and babies like I did. Kendra was independent . . . self-sufficient . . . completely satisfied to live the rest of her life on her own. God, why couldn’t I be more like her?

Without removing her eyes from the screen, my companion reached over and dug in the shopping bag. After much fishing, she removed a grease-stained paper sack. The unmistakable scent of mini-doughnuts from the market assaulted me. Kendra extracted several and stuffed them in her mouth. The usually pleasing aroma stirred something in me, something akin to . . . panic! What the hell was happening to me? Was I really envying a woman who considered coffee with an elderly aunt a major social event? Ironing a hobby? And Titanic an “oldie but a goodie”? I stood up; I knew what I had to do.

“Where are you off to?” Kendra asked, her eyes shifting accusingly in my direction. “Don’t you want to watch the movie?”

“I’ve got some errands to run.”

“Oh.” She sounded annoyed, as if James Cameron were her first cousin, and my leaving was a personal affront. “Suit yourself, but it’s a great movie—a classic.”

Struggling into my waterproof coat, I hurried out of the apartment. Kendra’s complacency with her chick flick and mini-doughnuts had spurred me to action. I was going to get out and start living again. The stitch ’n bitch was a small, but vital, step in the right direction. I would be learning something new... growing as a person—not to mention meeting a diverse group of interesting people. No more sitting in Kendra’s apartment listening to sad music and watching sad movies! I was finally moving on!

I headed down First Avenue to the shops in Belltown. I had no idea where to buy yarn and knitting needles, but I figured there must be a hobby store somewhere in the vicinity. As I neared the busy shopping area, the streets became more crowded. A rare glimpse of winter sunshine had brought the locals out of their homes, coffee cups in hand, to soak in some much-needed vitamin D. It seemed symbolic of my emergence back into life. I felt more hopeful than I had since before the split with Colin.

It appeared on my left, out of nowhere. Somehow—not surprisingly, I guess—I had never noticed it before. Given that I had previously associated knitting with second-degree burns on the elderly, it was normal to block it out. But there it was. Knit Wits the sign read: an entire store dedicated to yarn and needles and knitting patterns. Angie was right: This knitting thing really was all the rage! Leaning on the heavy glass door, I entered the shop.

My eyes widened with surprise. What I was expecting, I’m not exactly sure, but definitely not this chic, upscale boutique. Sun streamed in through the front windows and fell on the gleaming, bleached hardwood floor. The walls, painted a light sage green, were virtually obscured by row upon row of shelving, each overflowing with balls of yarn. I walked slowly down the length of the room, taking in the array of colours—from vibrant pinks and bright oranges to dusky, muted blues and rich, deep purples. The variety of textures was also astounding. Some yarns were as thin as spun silk, others, as thick and shaggy as a sheep’s hock. Down the centre of the store ran a row of tables, each displaying a number of completed projects: warm, cozy blankets; delicate shawls with intricate beadwork; rugged cable-knit sweaters; and adorable baby hats. Everything in the shop was beautiful, tactile, and completely intimidating.

“Hi!” a friendly voice called, before I could chicken out and hurry home to catch Victor Newman’s Titanic cameo. “Can I help you find something?”

The woman walking toward me was not what I would have expected either (i.e., a plump, elderly woman who looked like Mrs. Beasley). She was about forty, trim and stylishly dressed in a pair of tweed pants and a cream-coloured angora sweater. She had long mahogany hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and wore a pair of square, dark-rimmed glasses. She was smiling warmly as she continued to move in my direction. “You look a little overwhelmed. Is it your first time here?”

“Yeah,” I said, returning her smile. This helpful, friendly salesclerk was like some kind of omen. It was time for me to stop pining for what might have been, and get back in the real world. If I bought my knitting supplies, it would make me go to Angie’s on Thursday; it would ensure I got out of the house and met some new, hopefully single, people...“I’m joining a stitch ’n bitch club,” I said. “Can you help me get started?”