29

I’ve mulled around my room for the last few hours, sitting on my bed and sewing embellishments to a pair of jeans I’ve revamped into a new short denim skirt, trying hard not to get frustrated with the feelings inside. Partly to amuse myself and partly to piss Arrick off after leaving my other one in Amber’s apartment. That childish part always has to win in some way. Too defiant for my own good.

I used to do this sort of stuff when I was bored; customize my clothes and jazz up anything I felt needed it. It has a way of focusing my mind as I watch the small stitches neatly form wherever I work my needle. I forgot how much I missed this.

My sewing box is laid on the bed beside me, my box of assorted trim scattered in front of me and the mess of cut denim and scraps trailing off to one side as the housekeeper finishes unpacking what’s left of my luggage and removes herself with items for the laundry. She smiles my way with a warm affectionate look,