Chain

By the second, her fingers twisted and turned, maneuvering the yarn around the hook to form the intricate pattern. She was lost in this world of repetition, falling into the hypnotic motions that grabbed her with each stitch.

“Would you just put down the yarn for five seconds and talk to me?” His voice was exasperated, almost desperate for attention.

“You know perfectly well I can multitask, Jon, and this needs to be finished by Friday for Aimee.” Her fingers still moved along in their set track of movements as she shifted half of her focus onto the man in front of her.

“Well, I don’t care. It can wait,” he stepped forward and ripped the hook out of her hands.

Veronica’s mouth dropped open, ready to flood the air in protest, but instead, she closed it, took a deep breath, and brought her eyes up to his. “Well, you have my full attention. What do you want?” she snapped.

“I want you to stop and listen to me for once. You’re always busy, you’re always working, and you hardly ever pay me any attention anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” her voice was stiff, “but there’s so much work to be done, and I don’t have time for—“

“For what?” he interrupted. “After everything we’ve been through, you can’t save me ten minutes of your precious time?” He slammed her hook down on the table and stepped back to really look at it. What was it about that stupid yarn and that cheap piece of metal that was just oh-so captivating that she couldn’t break away from it?

“Jon, you know how important this,” she picked it up, “is to me. My work means just as much to me as your hockey does to you.”

“Don’t you dare bring my hockey into this,” he stepped back from her, feeling the anger fume in his head like smoke from a chimney. “Hockey is in my blood. I grew up with it and it’s just what I do. This,” he pointed back at the yarn, “is something that you’ve decided to pick up one day and you have some twisted attachment to it. Hockey is a mind game, a strategy, a competition that takes passion and dedication. Once you leave, you can’t come back. Your knitting or whatever it is you do is not the same. You can pick it up anytime you like. It is not the same as hockey, so don’t you even try and compare the two.”

Veronica bit the inside of her cheek and looked away from him, shaking her head as he ranted on.

“Anyone can pick this up and go with it. Hockey is something that takes years of perfection. It takes a lifetime of dedication. You sit there all day with that—I watch you,” he spat, “and I never see you go through what I do with hockey.”

“And what is that, Jon?” She crossed her legs and cocked her head, still sitting in the chair with the skein of yarn by her side.

“Blood, sweat, and tears,” he seemed to sneer.

“So because I don’t physically beat myself up, my passion isn’t true? C’mon, Jon! You’ve seen me when the pressure of deadlines set it. You’ve seen my all-nighters trying to finish a piece. I stress just as much about my work as you do about your games. I really don’t understand why you can’t accept that what I do is just as important as what you do.” She got up off the chair and stood up in front of him. Due to height differences, she would end up staring at his chest unless she tilted her head up.

“No, Veronica, I understand that it’s important to you. All I want is a little more time. You can’t put it down for ten minutes anymore. We never go out. We never do anything because you’re always working.”

“You know, you’re being somewhat hypocritical here. No, not somewhat, you are being hypocritical,” she leaned back and crossed her arms. “What about during hockey season when you’re on the road going to games? You leave for weeks on end. Sometimes, you don’t even call for days, and yet, Heaven forbid I take a week to myself to straight focus on my crocheting. See, that’s the thing. When you leave, I’m here alone. You know I hate this city, but I stay here for you, and when you leave, I’m stuck in this place all by myself and all I have is my crocheting. That’s all I have,” she stressed. “It may not seem like much to you, but to me, this,” she held it up in her hand, “is like a friend to me. When you leave, it’s all I have, and really, Jon, it’s not like I completely ignore you when you’re around. I talk to you. I laugh with you. I cook dinner for us. I don’t know what more you want."

“I want you to realize that you don’t need to rely on yarn as a friend; you have me.”

“Do I?” she cocked an eyebrow.

“How can you question that, after everything?” he shook her a bit, looking her in the eye.

“If you’re really there for me, you wouldn’t be asking me to abandon this.” Her eyes dropped down as she ran her fingers along the piece.

He dropped his arms. “I’m not asking you to abandon it. All I’m asking is that you back off a little.”

“What’s the difference?” she scoffed.

“Look, I’m trying to not fight with you here,” his voice raised a bit.

“Then don’t,” she said simply.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, walking to the door. “When you learn to prioritize and realize that your work is not the meaning of life, then come find me. Until then, goodbye.” And he left, slamming the door behind him.

Veronica sighed and looked down at the piece of yarn in front of her. The way it was so intricately twisted and laced, it was so delicate and beautiful. It was special to her and no one could ever take that away.

It was then that she decided one thing: she would never go to find him. Crocheting, knitting, sewing, creating was the most important thing to her, and all of the time and patience it demanded would never be wasted, and couldn’t be spent in a better way.

So, goodbye, Jon, and good riddance.