Handspun
It’s a cold day in the city. The sky, threatening rain all day, has become dark and brooding with evening. She doesn’t have to look out the window to see the clouds swirling. The wind whipping the branches of the trees. Every time the building shudders, it sounds like a gasp.
Charlotte sits on a stool, in the main room of her apartment, in front of a space heater. She’s spinning — or trying to. The fibers catch at her skin, leaving it raw and her knee aches from working the pedal. Smack click, it says, smack click. Keep going; twist, twist, twist.
She stops a moment to arch her back, keeping the yarn taut. She goes back to it soon enough. Whir, whir, whir the wheel spins.
~*~
When Charlotte gets the phone call, she lets out a breath she feels like she’s been holding for five years. Maybe longer. Maybe she’s always been holding it. Just waiting for confirmation of what she’s always known would eventually happen. Marcus was arrested. Marcus is a suspect in a murder investigation.
