The Alpaca Farm – Part 2: Spinning

At the end of the month, Kate finished her first skein.

It was uneven and lumpy and a little too tight, a ball of cream-and-grey yarn that looked like a hedgehog. She held it up proudly in the evening light. Marisol, in the doorway of the stone farmhouse, put a hand to her mouth.

"It is beautiful," she said.

"It is awful."

"It is yours."

They ate dinner outside, on a bench against the warm wall, as the sun slid behind the peaks. The mountains turned pink, then violet. A flock of llamas wandered past. Don Pedro watched from the fence with a haughty eye. Then, to Kate's astonishment, he walked over and lowered his long neck, resting his chin against her shoulder.

"He likes you," said Marisol, amazed.

"He's not spitting."

"He has never done this. Never."

Kate laughed, and tears pricked her eyes. She stroked his soft nose. The stars came out, huge and white. Without the glare of cities, the Milky Way was a river, flooding the sky from horizon to horizon.

"Can I ask you something?" said Marisol, quietly.

"Yes."

"Will you stay for the next shearing?"

"I leave Friday."

"That is not what I asked."

Kate looked at her. The starlight silvered Marisol's braid, her cheeks, the gleam in her eyes. "Yes," she said. "I'll stay."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Kate. "And if you say stop, you must teach me to weave."

"It takes years."

"I know."

Marisol kissed her, soft and warm, her calloused hand rising to cup Kate's cheek. Kate kissed her back with trembling happiness, tasting of quinoa and mint tea. The mountain wind stirred the grass. Don Pedro snorted gently in the dark.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Marisol.

"Green," said Kate. "Very green."

She stayed the season, and the season after. The yarn she spun that first night became a scarf. Marisol wears it every winter.

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