She brushes her stringy black hair away from her eyes, stares at the crystal doorknob lying on the coffee table. The knob came off in her hand when she tried to leave for the party and now she's sitting on the couch in her faded Dead Moon t-shirt, absently tracing the holes in her stockings as she waits for the locksmith. Her painted eyelashes encircle her bloodshot eyes like snipped stitches. She picks up the doorknob and watches the way the facets catch the light when she twists it, watches the smoke from her Marlboro curl around it. She's become half unraveled, and the thread of what used to be part of her lies in a tangle on the carpet. Every once in a while the cat comes by and bats at the pile for a while before dashing back into the bedroom to hide under the bed. She needs something to wind the thread around, so she can re-weave herself into a new tapestry. A brand new life on the loom, using the same drab colors except that in this new scene she's smiling, she's standing up straight instead of slouching, there's sunlight shining on her pale skin. She looks around the apartment for a suitable stick to use as a shuttle, a pencil or ruler or comb but she can't find anything so instead she knots the end of the string around the doorknob, then parting the curtains and opening the window, hurls it as hard as she can into the night.