Quilting
The door slammed open, and Brian stormed in, bringing a cold, wet, winter breeze with him. He stomped the rain off his boots, muttering in what sounded like German under his breath. The door banged closed, and the room started to heat again. He threw a stack of envelopes on the table, slightly damp from the trip, and shrugged out of his long trench coat, hanging it on the peg by the door.
He then stopped, and looked into the living room. A small card table had been set up in front of the couch, facing the door. It had a chair behind it, and a very large sewing machine, with a quilt hanging from the arm set atop. Patrick was seated in the chair, not moving, pins in his mouth and foot on the pedal.
Brian stared at him.
Patrick stared back.
Then, quite defensively, and out of the corner of his mouth, he said, “Lots of men quilt. There’s nothing wrong with it.” He winced slightly as one of the pins stabbed his tongue.
“I never said there was,” Brian replied reassuringly, trying not to look too surprised.
“Well, good,” Patrick answered lamely. Nonchalantly, he continued, “You’re, ah, home early. Job go okay?”
“Yeah, I was being tailed while tailing someone again, and decided to back off.”
“I see.”
“So how long have you been, um, a quilter?” Brian asked.
Patrick’s face was getting red. “Since I was nine.”
His boss nodded. “Well it’s good to have hobbies.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Patrick-,”
“What?”
“How the hell do you hide that thing?”