She mounts me to a wooden ring the size of a man's hat. She holds the top of the ring firmly with one hand and presses the bottom into her lap. She pushes it in, and pulls it out my other side. After a time, I grow numb to the stabbing.

"What is for dinner?" The man asks.

"I ruined the pot roast," she answers. "Too much heat for too long." It matters not that I am also ruined, and that my wounds grow hot. They decide on a quaint cafe, just down the street. I am nothing to either of them. She stitches the needle to my skin and tosses me onto the chair. Never since the beginning of time has loneliness swallowed it whole.