I run a pale hand over the cold windowpane. My heel clicks a fast tempo against the worn wood floor, scuffing my new shoes. I had bought them in hopes of you complimenting me on them, but it seemed you never returned home. You’re always with those girls. The trifecta of women always hanging around you like tramps- I can hardly even think about them without clenching my teeth in anger.
Although you have an ever-faithful wife like me —not an angry woman at that— how you never return home worries me, especially with those women hanging about.
I turn away from the dreary window, the fluorescent lighting near the back of my tailor shop casting ghostly shadows across my face. My wavy blonde hair obscures my eyes as I walk to the coat rack, hesitantly shutting the lights off before heading home in the dark.
---
It’s easy enough.
I saw you with her today. Flirting with each other like lovesick puppies— don’t you know that’s against the rules? You’re my husband, after all. I gave you my heart and you mine, pledging our lives to each other, but now you seem to have forgotten. You are mine, and you always will be.
I nip through the thin scarlet string. I would use my scissors, but they are busy with other tasks. You bought her a pretty red dress today.
If you like that color so much, then I should wear it. But what if I can’t get the right shade? No, I must have it exactly like what you bought.
I reach across the meticulously lit table for my scissors. I inherited them from my mother, so I must take very special care of them. But they are best suited for this job. When I prick my finger, I give a start. I wince in pain as I draw my hand to my mouth and suck on the wound. It’s a tiny cut that will go away within days, but it still hurts. It’s hard to distinguish my own blood with the subject in the dim lighting. I continue cutting, the thick material clogging the blades. Like when someone tries cutting too many sheets of paper at once, the oozing red material bunches between the sleek blades. The subject shakes, a soundless scream echoing in the small room. I tsk, mostly at myself; prying the scissor blades apart could potentially ruin both the dress and the scissors. Never mind the damage my ears could take from my most unwilling subject. I grab the
Tailor Shop, 9-10, p. 1
handles and slowly pull them apart, wincing as the silence was momentarily pierced by a screech, swiftly cut off as soon as the scissors were free.
My scissors are getting dull. It wouldn’t have pinched if they were sharpened how I would like them, because the more you sharpen them, the better they cut.
I silently curse myself for my carelessness. I have to focus on my work, not on anything else. But the hard part of my work is finished.
I run a hand over it as I start tailoring the beautiful red dress.
---
I saw you again today. I was at a little cafe near my shop, drinking bitter black coffee and puzzling over the daily crossword.
You were with a woman wearing a delicate teal headband. You seemed sad; she was comforting you.
There was a crime last night.
You looked up and smiled sadly at the girl, tracing her headband. What are you doing? It’s supposed to be my job to comfort you, to have my bangs pushed back behind my ears by your gentle hands.
So that’s the kind of girl you like.
The neighborhood was uneasy today; people were talking of a crime today. I don’t involve myself with the chatter; I just keep my sharp gray eyes trained on you.
I’m careful to not prick my finger again tonight; to pinch the material between the blades, lest it screams. My mother’s scissors are sharper than yesterday and worthy of the task. I carry them in one hand as I pace the back room of my shop, working. I have to concentrate. I have to concentrate. I need to- you need me to. My eyes are red and swollen as I bite through a teal thread, tailoring my new headband to fit me. It’s still a bit small to fit my head; the dress hadn’t needed as much work done to fit me. Red liquid leaked from the side of the silent subject’s top half, red liquid from where I pried it off it. I begin to fix my headband.
---
The neighborhood is growing more and more restless; it seems there was another crime yesterday.
Tailor Shop, 9-10, p. 2
I saw you again today in front of a department store. Who was that girl next to you? She’s way too young to be talking with you. Especially while bashfully playing with her new yellow knee socks. What on earth were you doing with her? She was so young... you’ve become so terrible, really. But I still love you, you know.
The subject’s struggles were erratic, and quite frankly, harder to conceal than the others. I expended much energy on keeping it down, so that I may tailor the new articles of clothing. I must concentrate. I shake my head to prevent my thoughts from trailing off. My mother’s scissors, I know, were perfectly suited for this.
That’s strange. Were they always this color? I examine them closely, seeing my reflection in the once-silvery scissors. Now my haggard reflection is tinted red. Isn’t it just the sharp edge? I can’t tell anymore.
I finally finished what I’ve been working on for tonight. And so if you’re not coming to get me, then I guess I’ll have to go confront you myself.
I zip the scarlet dress myself.
I tie the teal headband tightly.
I pull on my new, perfectly tailored knee socks.
They are all the exact shade you would like most.
Now I’m the kind of girl you like the best.
How do I look?
Aren’t I beautiful?
---
The neighborhood is in an uproar.
It seems another crime took place yesterday.
Now it’s a man who’s been murdered. An entire family of four slaughtered —how tragic is that?
And you were being so despicable.
I said, “Hello.” And waited for you to compliment me on my beautiful spectrum of attire. And waited.
And waited.
“Hello, it’s nice to meet you,” you finally said, tearing your eyes from my beautiful attire. It’s like you forgot who I am.
Tailor Shop, 9-10, p. 3
How could you?
I loved you.
As always, I must concentrate on my project. My mother’s scissors are stained a deep, glistening red from the new project I’ve taken up.
After all, the more you sharpen them, the better they cut.
Tailor Shop, 9-10, p. 4