The Scrimmage of Yarn

A quiet afternoon at the community centre explodes into a hilariously bitter feud over a misplaced knitting basket, forcing two stubborn seniors to confront their entrenched loneliness and perhaps, just perhaps, find a flicker of something new.

Moses shuffled into the common room, a grunt escaping him before his foot even cleared the doorway. It was Tuesday, three o'clock. His time. His chair. Number seven. The one by the window, where the autumn light, such as it was these days, could just about warm his left knee, which perpetually felt like a bag of loose gravel.

His eyes, rheumy but still sharp enough to spot a misplaced apostrophe at fifty paces, fixed on the crimson velvet. And then they narrowed. A basket. A goddamn wicker basket, overflowing with what looked like a half-finished baby blanket in an aggressively cheerful shade of lime green, sat plumply in the very centre of his seat. His seat.

He stopped, a creak in his lumbar spine echoing the one from the floorboards. Who in blazes?

A voice, sharp as a fresh needle, cut through the quiet hum of the room. "Something the matter, Moses? Lost your way to the men's lavatory?" Alexis, perched like a watchful crow on the sofa opposite, a half-eaten digestive biscuit hovering near her lips, offered a thin, superior smile. Her glasses, thick as bottle bottoms, gleamed.

Moses didn't even look at her. He just stared at the offending basket. "That," he rumbled, his voice gravelly from years of shouting at the telly, "is my chair."

"Oh?" Alexis took a deliberate bite of her biscuit, crumbs clinging to the corners of her mouth. "Did you perhaps engrave your initials into the upholstery? I don't recall seeing them. I rather thought it was first come, first served, like everything else in this establishment."

He turned then, a slow, deliberate pivot. Alexis. Of course. She was the only one with the sheer brass neck to do such a thing. Always knitting those absurdly bright things, like she was personally trying to blind the world with cheer. "You know perfectly well I sit there every Tuesday. It's my routine."

"Routine," she scoffed, a tiny burst of biscuit spraying onto the floor. "Is that what we're calling it now? Like an old engine, you mean? Needs a good crank to get started, then rattles along the same worn track?" She dabbed her mouth with a handkerchief, her eyes never leaving his.

A flush crept up Moses's neck. He hated being called old. He hated being predictable. He hated, most of all, Alexis and her smug, knowing gaze. "And what about your routine, Alexis? Knitting another monstrosity for a grandchild who probably prefers an iPad? Is that not a 'worn track'?"

Her jaw tightened, the lines around her mouth deepening. "At least I have grandchildren to knit for, Moses. Some of us still have family that remembers we exist." The words hung in the air, sharp, cruel, and far too close to the truth.

Moses flinched, a barely perceptible flicker behind his eyes. He hadn't meant to go there. Not really. But her jibe about the engine, it had stung. "And some of us," he shot back, his voice lower, more dangerous, "don't need a parade of little brats to prove we're still relevant. Some of us can manage our own company perfectly well."

A vein throbbed in Alexis's temple. "Is that what you call it, Moses? Managing? More like mouldering, I'd say. Like a forgotten tin of sardines at the back of the cupboard. Gets crusty, then eventually just… collapses."

He took a step towards the chair, his jaw clenched. "Remove your… your yarn bomb. Now."

"Or what?" she challenged, leaning forward, her eyes glinting. "You'll huff and you'll puff and you'll blow my basket down?" She let out a small, mirthless chuckle that grated on Moses's nerves like chalk on a blackboard.

---

He reached for the basket, intending to simply lift it and deposit it on the floor with a satisfying thud. But his aim, or perhaps his temper, was off. His fingers brushed against a thick, wooden knitting needle poking out, sending a cascade of lime green yarn unspooling across the worn carpet. A small, intricately crocheted unicorn, half-finished, tumbled out, landing on its side like a discarded toy.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Alexis exclaimed, pushing herself up from the sofa. She moved with surprising speed, a flustered clatter of limbs. As she rushed forward, her foot caught on the very edge of the unravelling yarn. Her glasses slipped down her nose, and for a split second, she looked utterly bewildered.

Moses, already off balance from his frustrated lunge, saw her stumble. Instinct, or perhaps sheer surprise, made him reach out. His hand clamped around her upper arm, just above the elbow, bony and surprisingly soft beneath his grip. Her other hand, still clutching the biscuit, flailed wildly, sending crumbs and digestive fragments showering over his carefully pressed cardigan.

They teetered for a moment, two old bodies suddenly entangled, a precarious dance of brittle bones and frayed tempers. Her face was alarmingly close, and he could see the faint network of broken capillaries on her cheeks, the way her sparse white hair stood on end, a tiny bead of sweat clinging to her temple. He smelt faint lavender and, oddly enough, a hint of lemon. His own breath hitched, hot and rough.

"Careful, you old fool!" she hissed, but the anger in her voice was tempered by a strange, almost breathless quality. Her weight pressed into him, unexpected and solid.

"Me?" he gasped back, his grip tightening inadvertently. "You're the one tripping over your own… your own woolly abominations!"

They didn't fall, not completely. They just sort of… sagged. Down onto the crimson armchair, Alexis half-perched on his lap, the knitting basket now completely inverted beside them, a rainbow explosion of yarn, needles, and half-formed fabric creatures littering the floor. Her hand, free from the biscuit, now rested, light as a fallen leaf, on his forearm.

Silence, thick and profound, descended on the common room. Even the dozing regulars seemed to stir, their heads slowly lifting. A few hushed titters broke the quiet, quickly suppressed.

Alexis pushed herself upright, her cheeks a faint scarlet. "Well," she declared, her voice regaining some of its usual bite, though it wavered slightly, "this is certainly an unusual way to claim one's seat, Moses."

He adjusted his glasses, feeling the absurd warmth where her body had pressed against his. "And an unusual way to defend it, Alexis. I've never seen anyone use a half-knitted unicorn as a weapon before."

She glanced down at the fallen, one-horned toy, then at the tangled mess of yarn. A faint smile, quick and fleeting, touched her lips. "He's a brave little fellow, isn't he? Bit lopsided, but brave."

He looked at the unicorn too. Its single horn was indeed a bit wonky, sewn on with more enthusiasm than precision. "Looks like he's seen better days, much like us, eh?"

---

Alexis sat back in the armchair, not quite touching him, but close enough that he could feel the residual heat from her presence. The tension, though still present, had shifted. It was no longer a taut wire, but a looser thread, perhaps even a bit frayed.

"You know," she said, her voice softer than he'd ever heard it, almost conversational, "that unicorn was for my youngest granddaughter. Phoebe. She's five. Insisted on lime green. Said it was 'magical'." She picked up a loose strand of yarn, twirling it around her finger.

Moses found himself looking at her hands. Age spots, prominent knuckles, but nimble, practised fingers. He wondered what they had done all their lives. His own hands, gnarled and scarred from a lifetime in carpentry, felt suddenly clumsy. "Magical, eh?" he repeated, a curious lightness in his own tone. "Kids always see the magic, don't they? We forget how."

"We do," she agreed, her gaze distant, fixed on the autumn leaves visible outside the window. "Or maybe it just gets… buried. Underneath all the sensible, grown-up things. Like routines. And proper chair etiquette."

He let out a short, surprised bark of laughter. It was a sound he hadn't heard from himself in years, rough and rusty, but real. "So, it was a test of my etiquette, then? The basket?" His gaze caught hers, and for a moment, an unexpected current passed between them, a shared understanding that went beyond the petty squabble.

She offered a small shrug. "Perhaps. I often wonder if anyone really notices anything, Moses. If they see beyond the… the crusty tin of sardines."

He cleared his throat. "I noticed. Your unicorn. It’s… well, it’s not bad. For a lopsided one."

Another soft chuckle, a quieter sound than before. "High praise, coming from you. I assume you're an expert in stuffed mythical creatures?"

"Only the ones that cause trouble on my chair," he retorted, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He found himself not wanting the moment to end, this odd, fragile truce. It was unnervingly comfortable, sitting here, amidst the scattered yarn, with Alexis not quite snarling at him.

"It gets lonely, doesn't it?" she murmured, her voice almost a whisper. "Even in a room full of people. Especially then, sometimes."

His own throat felt suddenly tight. He hadn't admitted that thought, not even to himself, in years. He just grunted, a non-committal sound that she seemed to understand perfectly. He looked down at his calloused hands, then at the single, slightly bent knitting needle that had poked out of the basket. It looked delicate, vulnerable, yet capable of creating something.

"My late husband, Walter, he always said I was too sharp-tongued," Alexis continued, oblivious to his silence, lost in her own memory. "Said I'd chase away every friend I ever made. He wasn't wrong, entirely."

"Mine, Elizabeth, she… she always thought I needed to loosen up," Moses confessed, the words escaping him before he could censor them. "Said I worried too much about the small stuff. Like chair placement."

They both fell silent, the shared vulnerability hanging between them, a delicate, unspun thread. The low murmur of the common room, the distant clatter from the kitchen, all faded into the background. It was just them, two old people, surrounded by the debris of an absurd argument, suddenly laid bare.

Alexis reached down and picked up the crocheted unicorn, smoothing its wonky horn. "Well," she said, her voice a little steadier now, "at least you're consistent, Moses. You still worry about the small stuff."

"And you," he replied, meeting her gaze, "still have a sharp tongue, Alexis."

A genuine smile finally bloomed on her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. It was a smile that transformed her, shedding years and bitterness, revealing a spark of something almost girlish. "Perhaps," she said, rising slowly, gathering the scattered yarn, "some habits are just too good to break."

He watched her, a strange warmth spreading through his chest, a feeling he hadn't realised he'd been missing. The chair felt different now, imbued with a new memory, a new presence. As she scooped up the last of her knitting, she paused, her hand hovering over the wicker basket. She looked at him, a glint in her eyes he couldn't quite decipher, then she placed the basket carefully on the small table beside the armchair, not in it, but definitely within reach.

"See you next Tuesday, Moses," she said, a hint of something playful, almost a challenge, in her tone.

He watched her walk away, a spring in her step he hadn't noticed before, leaving him alone in his chair. Not quite alone, though. The scent of lavender lingered, and the lime green yarn, now neatly contained in its basket, seemed to hum with an unexpected promise.