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(Monday afternoon, INT: EB and JH's apartment)

NP: Yes, your assessment was correct. This scarf is definitely fucked up.
EB: I'm really sorry. Is there any way I can make it up to you? How much was it worth?
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NP: In dollar value? I'd say a hundred fifty, maybe two hundred.
EB: What? What the hell kinda magic yeti yarn is this thing made out of?
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NP: I'm not even taking cost of supplies into account. That thing is handknitted. Even assuming my Mom was making minimum wage - which she shouldn't have been, since it's skilled labour - I'd say two hundred is low-balling it.
EB: Nicole, babe, I love you, and I acknowledge my wrongdoing, but I'm not giving you two hundred dollars for a damn rectangle.
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NP: Well, I guess you'll just have to learn to knit, then.
EB: You just said this thing took two hundred dollars' worth of your Mom's time, and I said it's not worth two hundred dollars. What part of that exchange makes you think I want to take up your lameass hobby?