by Mr. W
She eased the scissors through the cloth, taking care to cut with the heart of the blade and not the tips. It was late–too late–her eyes blinked unevenly, and her pauses in cutting lasted longer than she liked. But the dawn’s approach couldn’t be rescheduled. She had to work.
Later, hand-stitching the suit jacket, she slipped the needle into her opposite index finger three times before she realized she was bleeding. Why wasn’t she wearing her thimble? Why hadn’t she seen the red beads blotting into the fine offwhite linen?
She rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead. She took a sip of water. My refusal to wear the same outfit twice is getting out of hand, she thought.