Mother gives me her knowing, mischievous look. She presses a ball of fine black sha'mi wool into my hands, circling her own hands around mine.
"Let's see," she teases, "a knitter would be…precise. Analytical. Organized. Refined. Hmm. And also…a little homey. Someone surprisingly…comfortable to be around." She raises an eyebrow at me.
Her acuity can be so…exasperating. I sigh without looking away.
She squeezes my hands. "I'm…happy for you. That you have a friend, Spock."
"She is my TA. What you are implying would be inappropriate, mother. I will, however, give her this wool."
She smiles and releases my hands.