“I’m not asking for your social security number, just your name,” she says with another laugh, her comfortable demeanor disarming me. “But I do need your date of birth and passport number.”
I feel a smile form across my face.
“I’m Jack,” I say a beat later. A new customer pushes open thedoor, blowing fresh cold air into the space. I zip my coat up higher. “Good playlists, poor heating. Noted for next time.”
“I’m Rooney,” she says as she moves a misplaced roll of tape back to the right hook. “You seem more like a tie guy, but that’s not going to help you here.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bundle of knitted yarn. “Take this scarf that I made.”
“I can’t take that from you,” I say, backing up a step. “I don’t even know you.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You don’t trust me?”
I furrow my eyebrows. “No.”
“Right answer,” she says. “You’re going to think this is weird, but here. Seriously. It’s supposed to get even colder today.” She holds up what has to be the world’s longest scarf.
“Why is it so long?”
Rooney looks down at the possibly ten-foot scarf curled up in her hands and laughs. “It’s my Red Thread of Fate scarf!”
I shake my head.
“It’s a Chinese legend where Yuè Lao, the god of love and marriage, connects two people by the ankles with a red thread. Those two people are then destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. The magical string may stretch or tangle, but never break. Romantic, right?”
I take a moment to see if any of those words spark a memory. I don’t think my parents ever taught me this myth growing up. A fuzzy memory of Gong Gong talking about string begins to take shape but doesn’t grow.
I nod toward her. “And the scarf is supposed to be the… long, unbreakable red thread?”
“It’s called symbolism,” she says playfully. “Just let me cast off.”
She does something with the last row of stitches and then approaches me again slowly. As though I’m a wild animal on theverge of fleeing. I stand very still as she wraps the scarf over my shoulders. Up close, the aroma of citrus and vanilla wafts up. It’s both intoxicating and intriguing.
Rooney fluffs the seven or eight loops of knitted yarn around my neck. She takes a step back to consider her handiwork. The scarf smells like her.
“Red looks good on you,” she says with a smile.
I tug one end of the scarf and consider the feel of it. “Tell me honestly. Do I look ridiculous?”
Rooney gently takes the end of the scarf from me and pulls it down farther. Her hand slides against my puffer jacket with enough pressure for me to feel it. I’m hyperaware of how close she’s standing.
“I guess that was a little long. Looks like it was meant for you, though. There,” she says, patting the end of the scarf once more.
“I’m not quite sure what to say here. You really want to give me this?”
Rooney smiles. “I really do. It would make me happy to know it’s going to a fellow Kelly Clarkson fan.”
“Okay, well, thanks,” I say.
Dave lugs a box from the back and deposits it on the counter. Nodding to me, he says, “Good news! Your prints are ready.”
Already? “That was fast.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks, looking between me and Rooney.
I notice five small light brown moles on Rooney’s left cheek. I draw an imaginary line through them, their position creating a minimal version of the Big Dipper. It draws me in.
Dave clears his throat, the noise breaking my focus.
“No. Yeah. This is great. Thanks,” I say. A part of me wishes the printer would’ve gotten jammed again. Nerves for my presentationcome flooding back, along with the surprising disappointment at having to already say good-bye to Rooney.
