COUNT MY MACROS
Her emojis have me busting a gut. Job description or not, she’s funny. My smile slips, and a sweet ache tugs in my chest.
I want to see her again.
Hattie: WORK I WANT TO DO:
CUT OUT PATTERNS
CUT OUT FABRIC
THREAD MY SINGER
THREAD MY BOBBIN
SEW CLOTHING
GO TO MICHAEL’S
GO TO ALLBRANDS
PICK SWATCHES
BROWSE THE AURIFIL WEBSITE
When was the last time I smiled like this? I honestly can’t remember.
Me: Now your email address makes perfect sense.
Hattie: BOBBIN IS MY FAVORITE WORD!!!
The crack of my laughter is so loud, I’m hoping Pop can’t hear it from downstairs.
Hattie: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE WORD?
I wipe my eyes, shaking my head.
Me: Not sure. Haven’t given it much thought.
Hattie: DON’T THINK. JUST PICK ONE. YOU CAN CHANGE IT LATER.
Damn. This woman.
Fuck it.
Me: Harvest.
Hattie: OOOOH! GOOD ONE!
Hattie: IT’S A PRETTY WORD AND IT SOUNDS WHOLESOME. AND ANCIENT, AND IMPORTANT.
I nod at my phone.
Me: Pretty important from where I sit.
So important that I need to tell her goodnight so I can get some rest. I just don’t want to. Not yet, anyway.
I close my eyes and picture her sitting in the back of my truck. Then I open them and type.
