The Lumpy Scarf

"I didn't know you knit."

She looked up from her knitting, putting both needles down. Surrounded by baskets of colourful yarns, she blinked, "It's relaxing."

He placed the plastic bags on the kitchen table and came back with a chair to the living room. She cocked her head with questions in her mind, orange rays bouncing off her red strands. She stayed quiet as he placed the chair next to her and looked at her square in the eyes, 

"I want to learn how to knit."

Her large brown eyes blinked again. How strange the day became as the sun sunk to its sleep. The lack of warning from her prophetic mother made her fingers twitch, and the way this man with intense olive eyes asked for help made her squirm in her most comfortable spot.

She nodded and reached down to grab a pair of silver needles and a ball of blue yarn with a sigh. She held both of his hands and said, "This is how you hold the needles," —awkwardly. His olive eyes stayed faithfully on her hands, attempting to copy every muscle and movement without wavering.

She showed him how to handle the yarns—

"Stop pulling too tightly. You won't be able to knit properly. The threads won't slide smoothly if you wrap it snugly."

"Heh, you said snugly."

"Be quiet. I'm teaching you."

Which needles to use and its importance—

"Why can't we use this one? It looks adorable."

"The result won't, though."

And how to knit—

"That's a terrible rhyme. Who taught you?"

"It was my mother. She told me it made me laugh when I was little, and it helped me with knitting."

"Oh."

"Can we just please—"

"Oh, sorry."

"It's okay. Just knit properly, okay."

"Okay."

Both sat in silence, engrossed in their knitting. The deep orange rays embraced them as their hands work ever so steadily until the sky declared its rest and warm yellow lights flickered in the living room. They kept knitting with bathroom breaks, or one would put the needles down to clap twice so the lights would turn on again and they would carry on knitting. 

His knitting was messy and lumpy; some of the threads were poking out, and it wasn't what he'd call neat. Hers was the complete opposite; neat, beautiful, and not lumpy. She looked especially stunning when she's knitting. He liked how the lights bounced around her hair and how small, random strands of her hair fell near her ears and forehead. He found it her serious yet calm expression fascinating and how her lips would sometimes thin a bit when she reached some problematic parts. He liked how her hands move incredibly gentle when she knitted. It's so fluid and calming when he watched her; she was mesmerising even under their ugly yellow lighting.

The routine continued whenever he found her knitting in the living room. He would silently join her, and they would knit for hours end. He's not so terrible now; still a bit lumpy but better than before. She would sometimes help him and guide him—

"I said gently."

"Sorry."

Or requested for his help to get some yarn from the cupboard—

"Woah. That's a lot of yarn."

"I collect them."

"You collect strange things."

"I'm not the one collecting leaves."

"Touché."

On rare times, the small table between them would have tea and biscuits, freshly made by her mother, who seemed to approve of their strange friendship over knitting. On some days, her mother would join them and would "accidentally" knit an entire sweater—

"Oh, dear," the elder woman giggled. "Look at me!"

"You can't put this in my closet, Mum."

"Now, why would I do that, my darling?"

"Can I have it instead, then?"

Her mother stood up to kiss his dark hair, her dark blue eyes glowing under the twilight. One might've assumed they were flooded with love or perhaps merely tears. He didn't know her well enough to pinpoint.

On other days, no words were exchanged besides the occasional "gently", "slowly", or sometimes "grab me this or that" and they just knit, knit, and knit. He'd made several scarfs and ties but never a sweater. Just because, "I don't think it'll look good yet." 

She looked up and stared at him in confusion, "Knitting doesn't have to look good. If it's made with love, the person who accepted it will love it. Because you made it with your effort and time."

He smiled. 

They continued knitting.