I'm trying to sew my skirt back together.
It's not going very well, let me just say.
I probably should have listened in all those lessons I got when I was little. You know, those lessons that teach you certain skills that only women use. Well, it turns out I need those skills at the moment.
Great.
So, I'm sitting in the library, trying to stitch my skirt back up and I have no idea what I'm doing. My stitches are WAY too uneven and lumpy.
And I just stabbed my finger with the needle.
Ow. It's bleeding.
Crap.
I throw my skirt, needle, and thread across the room with a shout of anger.
I hate this.
"Need some help?" Says a voice from behind me.
"No. Unless you know how to sew well." I reply sulkily.
"Well, I can't say I know how to do that." Jones says, sitting next to me.
"I'm bleeding." I say lamely, incapable of forming a good conversation.
"Badly?" He asks worriedly, sitting forward to look over at my finger.
"No, it's just a prick." I say, snatching my hand away from him.
"Don't worry, I wasn't going to touch your hand." He says, leaning back in his seat.
"Good." I say, still not happy about my throbbing finger.
"Well, I'm sure you can find someone to mend that skirt for you." He says. "I think Miranda might know."
I start laughing. "No way am I asking Miranda for lessons, sewing or not. No thank you."
He takes a minute to get the hint. He obviously barely remembers that he just kissed Miranda a good two weeks ago in this very same library.
"Have fun sewing." He says after a moment of silence, walking out of the library.
I go to look for a bandage.
Sewing is not fun.