Paul took his sewing machine to a repair shop because it kept stitching his trousers to the practice cloth. He had learned to sew to mend one pair of curtains, and after three weeks he had produced two crooked hems and a very secure piece of upholstery.
The technician, Salma, asked him to demonstrate. Paul laid the cloth under the foot, pressed the pedal and guided it forward. The machine stitched beautifully. He added the trouser leg. The needle caught the fabric and tugged the whole bundle sideways.
“You need to separate the layers,” she said.
“I thought I had.”
She showed him how the material folded under the table. Paul watched carefully, then tried again. The seam was straight. He looked both proud and annoyed that the machine had worked in front of a witness.
Salma checked its tension and cleaned out a surprising amount of blue thread. She asked what he was making.
“A curtain.”
“With trouser legs?”
“Those were casualties.”
He explained that his wife had bought fabric for the living room but injured her hand before she could hem it. He had offered to help and discovered that a sewing machine looked much friendlier when it was switched off. Salma gave him a scrap to practise on and drew a chalk line for him to follow.
He returned a week later with the curtains. The hems were straight enough from a distance. His wife had hung them anyway, saying a crooked edge was less noticeable than an uncovered window.
“One side hangs lower,” Paul said.
“Can I see it?”
He showed her a photograph. Salma noticed that the curtain rail itself sloped down toward the corner. Paul stared at the picture. He had spent a week shortening one curtain to match a rail that was not level.
At home he fetched a spirit level. The rail was indeed crooked. He tightened the bracket and both curtains hung evenly. His wife admired the result and asked whether he could now mend a cushion cover.
Paul said yes before he remembered how long the curtains had taken. He carried the cushion cover back to Salma and asked for advice. She showed him how to pin the pieces together and leave room for the zip.
On his third visit he brought the finished cushion. The seams were good; the zip opened. Salma congratulated him. Paul looked at the shop’s repair sign and wondered aloud whether she offered lessons.
“I just gave you three,” she said.
“And how much do I owe you?”
“For the cleaning, nothing else.”
Paul reached into his bag for the original trousers. They were still attached to a little square of practice cloth.
“Then perhaps,” he said, “you can charge me for the separation.”