Axl’s P.O.V
The ache in my fingertips sharpened to a harsh throb that mimicked a persistent migraine. It forced me to drop the knitting needle with a clatter onto the mahogany table beside the waiting area couch. The sound echoed in the near-empty shop as I felt like I'd aged decades overnight.
"Ugh, twenty-two going on eighty," Rising from my seat, I stretched, groaning like a woman two times my age. A breath pushed to my lips and I winced at the pops in my spine. Twenty-two, with hands achy enough to belong to an octogenarian. At this age, I shouldn't feel like I was auditioning for the role of a hunchbacked crone in some forgotten play.
Just as the thought of returning to the endless loop of knitting patterns and yarn balls threatened to overwhelm me, strong, warm arms enveloped me.
