Lachesis smiled and batted away the apology with a gentle swat of the hand. "Don't you even worry about that. We've all had a nosebleed before, you're not bothering anybody here."
"No big loss if you did," Atropos added matter-of-factly. "Who needs customers with that kinda weak constitution? Not me! Although..." she tapped her chin, and her expression grew momentarily pensive, brows drawing together. "I have always wanted to have somebody ask to talk to my manager."
Clotho, who by the virtue or misfortune of her unchangingly young face had been asked variations of this question more than enough times over the centuries, snorted softly.
If Atropos noticed, she gave no indication; she had finished her spray of poppies with a cluster of deft French knots and was holding the hoop at arm's length, examining her handiwork, and... oh yep, it was unmistakeable now, spelled out in lovely cursive letters formed by the white spaces between the flowers was the word FUCK. Satisfied, she began sifting through her skeins of thread for a new colour.
"Speaking of customers," she nudged Clotho with an elbow, "that girlie before bring in anything interesting?"
"Box of old books. She was cleaning out her mom's house." Clotho nodded at the heavy cardboard box currently taking up most of the counter space. "I haven't looked through it all yet. Though, you won't believe this—" She moved round to the box and picked up the topmost book to show the others. "It's another Da Vinci Code." Atropos and Lachesis groaned in unison.