Until one night, itching for the burn of liquor as I flipped through cooking shows and George snored in my spare bedroom, I decided to try to make crepes instead. I didn’t drag George out of bed, not for a second, but I didn’t drink, either. And when George walked into the kitchen the next morning, he found stacks and stacks of stone-cold crepes. I was passed out on the couch, exhausted from my nocturnal cooking adventure.
And sober as a judge.
The next night, I made a flan. Three flans, actually. Two-and-a-half of them wound up in the garbage, but I didn’t mind. I knew that the next time I wanted a drink—the next thousand or million times, really—I had a strategy.
Edith granted me a rare smile. “You looked and felt like hell, but you were still cute, kiddo,” she rasped. “Now, tell me how things are going.”
Our server placed a plate in front of me, and I grabbed a strip of bacon and crunched off the end. “Good,” I said. “Busy. The shop is doing great, and I’ve got a spread coming up in Tattooist.”
“Oh yeah,” Edith said. She stuffed her knitting into her voluminous straw bag and picked up her fork. “Those sleeves you did for your brother, right? You were pretty stressed out about those last time we talked.”
I nodded and took another bite of eggs. “I was, but they turned out great. Best thing I’ve done so far in my career. Which is good, because Nicky is built like a brick shithouse and would destroy me if I gave him bad tattoos.”
Edith waved her fork at me before popping a bite of pancake into her mouth. “You wouldn’t. You’re too good at it.”
I smiled at her. “Thanks, Edith. That means a lot coming from you.” And it did.
After breakfast, I headed over to my shop, Zeus Tattoo. We didn’t open until noon, but I liked the quiet before the other artists and clients arrived. It was plum time to think, to sketch and get ready for my day, to get my head in the game if I was feeling a little scattered.
Lots of artists had gone all digital—and I did too for convenience most of the time, but for me, nothing beat the feel of a pencil on paper or paint on canvas, except maybe a tattoo machine on skin. I pulled my thick sketchbook and flopped into my chair, reclining back as I chewed on a thumbnail and thought.
Knitting needles. Yarn.
Right, I needed to find a class. I would, right after I finished this.
But for now, I carefully drew the outline of knitting needles and yarn, the fine fibers weaving and looping until they formed a heart. It was a small drawing, but still careful work. The hardest part of any drawing, I had found, was knowing when to put the pencil down. And when I finally lifted the lead away from the paper, I smiled with satisfaction and carefully closed the sketchbook.
Somebody would love that tattoo one day, I decided. When I was ready to set it free. But not yet—for now, I put it away, then grabbed my laptop. Time to find a knitting class.
Most of these classes met around six or seven in the evening. Shit. Early evenings were usually no good for me—I was usually at the shop until around six, often later.
Met more than once a week? That was out.
Community center halfway across Seattle? No good.
Wait a second—the senior center near my house offered a class. Ten in the morning every Tuesday, join anytime. I’d probably be the youngest in the class by a few decades—and stick out like a sore thumb thanks to my size and the tattoos—but I didn’t give a shit about that. The website said the class was open to everyone, so I’d just take them up on the offer.
Besides, I thought with a smile as I completed the online registration, I got along great with older folks. My Nana had been crazy about me when she was alive, and Edith might have called me an idiot baby over breakfast, but she’d been slipping me Christmas cards and homemade baked goods for years. And if I could handle grouchy, snappish Edith, I could handle anybody.
The first class met tomorrow, so I sent the supply list to the shop printer and made a mental note to run to the craft store later to pick up the items I needed to get started on my knitting journey.
With plans for my next hobby in place, I stashed my laptop and started getting ready for my first client of the day. Seattle’s best up-and-coming tattoo artist—according to my upcoming spread in Tattooist, anyway—had a busy day ahead.