Wednesday, the Ninth of August, 2011
A lady sits in her kitchen, weaving in the last ends of a sweater, carefully reinforcing seams. The sweater is knit at five stitches to the inch in silk and stainless steel fiber, spun so fine it can’t be called other than thread. The sweater took ten months to knit. The sweater took ten days to seam. The sweater is due in the textile arts building of the exposition hall in twelve hours.
The house is dark. Quiet but for the ticking of the kitchen clock on the wall. A fly buzzes through the kitchen. A cat sleeps in the hall. There is a teacup on the table.
The lights are out in every room but this one.
The lady snips a thread and turns the garment. She examines two ending threads in unexpected juxtaposition to each other.
The lady spreads the dark stitches across her palm.
Despite careful planning to the contrary, the lady realizes the front panel of the sweater is set in backwards, purl side out.
The clock ticks. The cat sleeps. The lady takes a sip of cold tea.
To the empty kitchen and the empty teacup, the lady announces:
“Fuck it. It’s a feature.”
The lady eats a brownie, turns out the light, and goes to bed.