Sally Stitches Quotes

I love him so much it's like a thread piercing me. Punching holes. Dragging through. Stitching love into me. I'll never be able to untangle myself from this feeling. The color of love is surely this robin's-egg blue.

I wonder if someday Jack and I will have our own pram filled with tiny skeletons and rag dolls. The scuttle of little feet through the house. Skeleton boys tumbling down the spiral stairs; little rag doll girls with their threads coming loose, always needing their fingers and toes stitched back together. A perfectly grim little family.

At the crisp, inky hour of midnight, Jack and I are married atop Spiral Hill in the Death Door's Cemetery. Wind stirs the bone-dry leaves, and Jack takes my soft rag doll hands in his--the coolness of his fingers calming the flutter rippling across my stitched seams.

I’ve learned how to take out my own stitches: all you need is a pair of fingernail clippers & a strong stomach.

I wish I could unpick the stitches of time that have become all tangled and twisted together.

I pull out the blue spool of thread and the sharp needle I always keep in the left pocket of my dress--because old seams have a way of popping, thread unspooling, and you never know when you'll need it--and begin stitching my arm back into place. It takes longer than usual; some of the linen has begun to fray along the seam, and I need to gather a few spare dead leaves from the graveyard to fill my shoulder socket all the way. It's a ghastly thing to lose an arm--or any part of yourself, really--to feel disconnected from your body. Not quite whole. And I've always wished Dr. Finkelstein had stuffed my insides with something other than dried, shriveled leaves, tossed aside by the trees. Cotton perhaps, or rose petals. Something silken and ladylike.

I love him so much it's like a thread piercing me. Punching holes. Dragging through. Stitching love into me. I'll never be able to untangle myself from this feeling. The color of love is surely this robin's-egg blue.

Did I hurt you?" he asked worriedly. She shook her head wordlessly. It did hurt a little, of course--- it always did. But so much less than when Dr. Finkelstein would carelessly jab his needle into her cloth, without caring how she was feeling or even if his stitches would hold for the long haul. But Jack was different. Meticulous. Gentle. And instead of feeling uncomfortable, she felt a strange warmth settle in her stomach.Soon Jack finished, giving her a shy smile as he tied off the last stitch. And from the look on his face, she realized he'd felt something, too. Maybe it wasn't exactly the same. Maybe not as strong. But something. Which made her feel even warmer.

I really am prepared to push Sally for information. I’m dying to know what’s put a huge smile on her face and provoked the introduction of scoop neck tops. ‘What did you get up to at the weekend, Sal?’ I ask casually as I dunk the biscuit tin. I catch her blushing again. I’m definitely onto something here. If she says she’s done a cross-stitch and cleaned the windows, I’ll hang myself.

Oddly untethered, she seemed to be feeling everything and nothing at once. It reminded her of having a local anesthetic for stitches, how you could feel the doctor tugging your skin but you couldn't feel the pain. But with it went the knowledge that once the injection wore off, the pain would hit.

She’d been told she was lucky to go to the place with the cat who bit her so deeply she’d needed eight stitches and an IV drip.

As she leaves, I wonder if I said goodbye. If she did. So many of these unfinished and fleeting moments pinned, stitched, patched together in a never-whole recollection.

Six a.m., first light of dawn, world stitching itself back together out there, reconstituting itself, as he looked on. Blink, and the warehouse across the way reemerged. Blink again, the city loomed in the distance, a ship coming hard into port.

What's the matter with you, you poor reptile? I told Jimmy and Elsa that my nephew might look like a half-witted halibut, but wait till he starts talking, I said, he'll have you in stitches. And what occurs? Quips? Sallies? Diverting anecdotes? No, sir. You sit there stupefying yourself with food, and scarcely a sound out of you except the steady champing of your jaws. I felt like an impresario of performing fleas who has given his star artist a big build-up, only to have him forget his lines on the opening night.