I placed the two squares of fabric carefully over the paper, lined up the seam, and sewed. The first row of stitching for the day, the hum of the machine almost drowning out the animated audiobook voice piping into my head via the shoddy earbuds. I pushed the volume up a notch and pulled the piece off the machine.
Press. Out with the dry iron, onto the starch-stained board, and the first pressing for today. I wasn't really taking notice, autopilot for such a simple act, and suddenly the scent of dry, hot fabric and paper wafted up from the ironing board, hitting my nostrils, and prompting me to pause my ipod, pause the book, pause the iron. Pause everything.
A moment of almost-silence, the soft crackle of paper as I remove it from the board, the muffled roar of the clothes dryer in the next room, the click of the iron heating up again.
A day off. A day off, with the house to myself, to sew, and listen to my book, with the cockatiels fluffing themselves contentedly next to me, their enjoyment at being out of the cage for a whole day as evident as my own.