It was an accident. I didn’t notice her slip into the studio unannounced before I quietly shut the door before bedtime.
She spent the night. With the paint brushes. And the yarn. And the various projects delicately strewn about.
The last time (there was only one time before), she spent her studio time triumphantly unraveling the baby sweater I was knitting for a gift. Last time was a pink nightmare of tangled string, like a massive spider web, wrapped around every piece of furniture in the room. This is why she’s not allowed in the studio unattended.
I awoke to a gentle meowing cry. I thought it was coming from outside. Groggily, like a horror story plot twist, I realized the call was from inside the house. More specifically, THE STUDIO. I took a deep breath before I opened the door. I was afraid to open my eyes as she slipped past innocently strolling to the food dish in the kitchen.
I summoned bravery and looked. No massive reorganization of all my fibers into a giant spaghetti replica. No time shift into a torturous alternate universe of disaster.
Just a few items from my desk, arranged in a neat row on the floor – my ipod in it’s crocheted gnome cover, a coaster and two pieces from an amigurumi toast that I’ve never managed to sew together.
A warning, for the next time.
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