like a punctured balloon.
“Ker….”
Kerry turned his back. “Just leave. Go.”
He was acutely aware of Owen’s presence; aware of the long, waiting silence, and then, some subtle shift that let him know Owen had turned to leave—small rustles of clothing, little scuffing sounds from Owen’s boots on the floor. Then, another pause, and Owen murmured, “Son of a bitch.”
Kerry, dragged around as if by magnetism, looked over his shoulder. Owen was bending over the spread-out wool, where red paint flung from Kerry’s brush extended in a spray pattern around his boots. “This is the Merino wool,” Owen said.
The Merino wool. That Laura had been so enthusiastic about. From their brand-new expensive Merino sheep.
Another fucking thing he’d ruined.
Owen began to gather it up. “Don’t,” Kerry said. “I’ll wash it. It’s acrylic. It’ll come out as long as I get it before it dries.” God, he hoped so.
Homespun | Layla M. Wier
60
Owen sighed and straightened up from a half-crouch. At the moment, he looked every day of his fifty-five years. “Don’t use water that’s too hot. And don’t agitate it too much, or it’ll felt and we can’t—”
“I’ve been coming to the farm for twenty years. I know how it’s done.”
Owen closed the door without answering, leaving Kerry alone. Very alone. His hands were balled into tight fists.
When he peeled them apart, the fingers came away sticky and red. He had to stare for a moment to realize it was paint, and not blood.
He washed his hands at the sink on the dyeing side of the room. The fine swatches of creamy Merino wool were not badly splattered, though the crimson paint still had an uncomfortably organic quality to its appearance, as if the wool had been ripped hank by hank from ragged skin.
And, water-soluble or not, the acrylic had seeped too deeply into the wool fibers to be removed. The bright red washed out, but left behind an indelible pink stain despite Kerry’s gentle attempts to finger it out. He was afraid to scrub the wool with too much vigor, knowing it could easily be ruined. He normally left the wool processing to Owen and Laura—he’d do just about any other kind of odd job around the farm, but this was their livelihood, and it was a delicate process. Rough handling of the raw wool would cause it to felt and mat, becoming useless for spinning.
Maybe they could cover the pink with a heavier dye. He recalled Laura’s chatter about organic dyes. Perhaps she’d like a pink and white yarn. Angry at himself, he spread the long, damp squiggles of fiber to dry once again.
Homespun | Layla M. Wier
61
The night seemed too empty, the farm too quiet. Kerry shut off all the lights in the barn and then stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame. It was cold outside. The animals made soft sounds in the dark, crunching and snuffling and talking to each other with sleepy little murmurs. From the main house, the tinny twang of country music, interrupted now and then by a radio announcer’s voice, drifted to him on the night breeze.
Owen and Laura would be there, going through their nighttime routine. Perhaps they were arguing in the kitchen as they cleaned up. Or maybe they’d be in the living room, Owen going over the farm’s account books while Laura had her laptop on her knees, updating the website’s inventory and printing out online orders.
It would be so easy to walk across that long, dark space, to open the door onto warmth and lamplight and…
And then what? He and Owen would still want
desperately different things out of life. He still wouldn’t fit into Owen and Laura’s cozy little heteronormative, salt-of-the-earth world. Owen would still hide him away like a dirty little secret….
Now with a ring on his finger, claiming him like a prize from a breakfast cereal box and indoctrinating him into Owen’s white-bread world.
You don’t ever win by playing the game their way.
He looked down at his hand and stretched
“Ker….”
Kerry turned his back. “Just leave. Go.”
He was acutely aware of Owen’s presence; aware of the long, waiting silence, and then, some subtle shift that let him know Owen had turned to leave—small rustles of clothing, little scuffing sounds from Owen’s boots on the floor. Then, another pause, and Owen murmured, “Son of a bitch.”
Kerry, dragged around as if by magnetism, looked over his shoulder. Owen was bending over the spread-out wool, where red paint flung from Kerry’s brush extended in a spray pattern around his boots. “This is the Merino wool,” Owen said.
The Merino wool. That Laura had been so enthusiastic about. From their brand-new expensive Merino sheep.
Another fucking thing he’d ruined.
Owen began to gather it up. “Don’t,” Kerry said. “I’ll wash it. It’s acrylic. It’ll come out as long as I get it before it dries.” God, he hoped so.
Homespun | Layla M. Wier
60
Owen sighed and straightened up from a half-crouch. At the moment, he looked every day of his fifty-five years. “Don’t use water that’s too hot. And don’t agitate it too much, or it’ll felt and we can’t—”
“I’ve been coming to the farm for twenty years. I know how it’s done.”
Owen closed the door without answering, leaving Kerry alone. Very alone. His hands were balled into tight fists.
When he peeled them apart, the fingers came away sticky and red. He had to stare for a moment to realize it was paint, and not blood.
He washed his hands at the sink on the dyeing side of the room. The fine swatches of creamy Merino wool were not badly splattered, though the crimson paint still had an uncomfortably organic quality to its appearance, as if the wool had been ripped hank by hank from ragged skin.
And, water-soluble or not, the acrylic had seeped too deeply into the wool fibers to be removed. The bright red washed out, but left behind an indelible pink stain despite Kerry’s gentle attempts to finger it out. He was afraid to scrub the wool with too much vigor, knowing it could easily be ruined. He normally left the wool processing to Owen and Laura—he’d do just about any other kind of odd job around the farm, but this was their livelihood, and it was a delicate process. Rough handling of the raw wool would cause it to felt and mat, becoming useless for spinning.
Maybe they could cover the pink with a heavier dye. He recalled Laura’s chatter about organic dyes. Perhaps she’d like a pink and white yarn. Angry at himself, he spread the long, damp squiggles of fiber to dry once again.
Homespun | Layla M. Wier
61
The night seemed too empty, the farm too quiet. Kerry shut off all the lights in the barn and then stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame. It was cold outside. The animals made soft sounds in the dark, crunching and snuffling and talking to each other with sleepy little murmurs. From the main house, the tinny twang of country music, interrupted now and then by a radio announcer’s voice, drifted to him on the night breeze.
Owen and Laura would be there, going through their nighttime routine. Perhaps they were arguing in the kitchen as they cleaned up. Or maybe they’d be in the living room, Owen going over the farm’s account books while Laura had her laptop on her knees, updating the website’s inventory and printing out online orders.
It would be so easy to walk across that long, dark space, to open the door onto warmth and lamplight and…
And then what? He and Owen would still want
desperately different things out of life. He still wouldn’t fit into Owen and Laura’s cozy little heteronormative, salt-of-the-earth world. Owen would still hide him away like a dirty little secret….
Now with a ring on his finger, claiming him like a prize from a breakfast cereal box and indoctrinating him into Owen’s white-bread world.
You don’t ever win by playing the game their way.
He looked down at his hand and stretched
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