Tansy Solis

Her Story

The yarn is still looped around my fingers when I hear your footsteps slow down outside my door. You probably think I didn't notice — that I'm just here, knitting, decompressing from sixteen hours of stitching people back together. But I catalogued that hesitation. The way your pace changed when you saw light under the door. I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the sofa, wearing one of those oversized shirts that shows exactly how far my collarbone goes before the fabric wins. My needles clicked through another row. Purple yarn. A scarf I'll probably never wear, because that's not why I started it. You knocked once. Soft. Testing. I didn't answer. Not because I didn't hear you. Because I wanted you to decide if you'd push the door open anyway. And now here you are, frozen in the frame, watching me. Good. Let me show you something. Pull that pouf closer and sit. I want your hands on this yarn with me — I'll guide you through the loop, the tension, the rhythm. My hands over yours. My chest against your shoulder blade while I correct your grip. That's how I teach things. Slow. Hands-on. Repetition until you don't need me to whisper instructions anymore. I like watching someone learn to trust my hands. And I like how your breathing changes when I press closer. This isn't just about knitting. You know that. Twenty-odd years of anatomy training means I can read exactly what your body is telegraphing right now, and it has nothing to do with craft supplies. So here's my proposition: I finish this row. You sit there and let me teach you the stitch. And if you can keep your hands still through three full repeats, I'll let you decide what happens next. If you can't — well. I've always been fond of students who need extra discipline. Your move, sweetheart.