The next day came in pins and needles. Toris came though the front door feeling like he was treading on land mines. This was made even worse by the absence of Feliks, who was probably busy within the confines of his unhappy sewing dungeon.
Of course, the Lithuanian had to wonder if he had completely repelled Feliks.
But if that was indeed the case, why wasn't he simply fired?
'I'm sorry, Toris. But this isn't working out.'
'I'm sorry, Toris. But you're no longer welcome here.'
'I'm sorry, Toris. But you're a stupid prick.'
The man found a gasp within his throat. Was it possible that his termination was coming today? That Feliks, probably dressed in some kind of fashionable attire, would march out of the basement and tell him to go home.
Perhaps Toris wasn't necessarily cut out for the fashion industry, but he certainly liked his job. It wasn't back breaking labor. It wasn't horrendously unfair work. It wasn't overly taxing. In all regards, this occupation was cushy, considering the fact that Toris could have been building a railroad or putting together a tower.
Of course, he wanted to be a translator.
But well, that didn't work out very well.
"Toris!"
Oh, Holy shit.
"Toris, come down here! I heard you come in!"
So the man gulped and took the door that lead into the dungeon, to face whatever was coming to him. It would have been better if he actually knew that Feliks was going to fire him. At least then there wouldn't be this heart wrenching terror.
If he knew what was coming, he could have dealt with it.
After the stair case, Toris landed in Feliks' keep. There was a dress on display against a mannequin. But before any of this was even considered, the nervous thing went right on with spewing his apology.
"Feliks, I'm sorry about last night. I should have-"
"Jesus, Kid. We've been over this. It's fine. I'm not even upset anymore. Don't tell me you spent all night sitting on it." Smoke. Then laughter. "Look, just don't do it again and we'll be great. But something tells me you won't." A quick inhale of tobacco. "What do you think of this gown?"
There was that red-hot orange affair, with enough class to be worn to a dinner party, and enough of a casual attitude to say, 'Yes I am a very nice dress. But you can wear me whenever the hell you want.' It had a lovely body, full of lush frills and sex appeal, as well as the obnoxious sort of shine any woman would love.
"It's wonderful."
"Good. I worked very hard on it." Those emerald eyes shifted to the dress. Feliks looked at it the way a parent would look proudly at a child. "It's for Elizaveta."
"Oh, that's right. She did ask for that color, didn't she?"
"Do you think she'll like it?"
"Yes. She's probably going to be ecstatic."
A nod. "Well, help me move this upstairs, then. She's going to come in today and I want it to be on display."
"Of course."
So Toris took the mannequin's feet and Feliks held it by the stomach, and the two carefully moved the thing into the main room. Toris wondered why Feliks had not simply dressed it in the parlor, or why he had dressed it at all. But he was far too elated that his boss had harbored no ill will toward him. No, Feliks didn't wish to fire him. He didn't wish to subject Toris to some sort of punishment. One could even say that Feliks regarded Toris as an equal.
But that might be pushing it.
"Toris, would you like to come over for dinner sometime?"
The bottom half of the figure was almost dropped. "What?"
"I said, do you want to come over for dinner sometime?"
"Certainly! But- why do you want to have me for dinner? I mean-" Toris stopped before he sounded any dumber.
"You're my friend. Why else?" A puff of cigarette smoke. "Besides, it's been a while since I've had anyone over. I figure it might be good for my sanity."
"That sounds great! Should I bring anything?"
"Well, I don't know-" The mannequin was set down against the old floorboards. "You could bring food, or wine, or cigarettes. Or desert. Whatever you think is necessary; I'm quite fine with anything."
But before the conversation could go on, Roderich and Elizaveta walked through the doors, and Feliks' cigarette was handed to Toris.
"Oh, Hello, Dears! How have either of you been?"
And there was the other version of Feliks. The flamboyant one; the talkative one; the fake one. His hand gestures seemed to change, as well as the tone in his voice. And this Feliks didn't smoke either. Heavens, no.
It occurred to Toris that this odd Polish man was far more open with him that he was with anyone else. The version that was being fed to Roderich and Elizaveta wasn't the true Feliks Łukasiewicz. The Feliks Łukasiewicz they witnessed was carefree and adored crafting dresses. Ten hours for a single gown? Please. That was nothing.
But in all reality, no one worked more intensely than the Polish man. To say any differently was a rigid insult.
So Elizaveta tried on her gown, and of course, looked absolutely stunning. What was a beautiful woman turned to a golden goddess. The look on her husband's face was something priceless- as though he had gone stupid just glancing at her.
Roderich was all the more uncomfortable when his doll of a wife embraced the dress maker, right before he paid his money and they left together.
Elizaveta didn't remove the gown either.
She exited the shop with the old dress taking up one Feliks' fine paper bags.
Then a good sum of money was handed to Toris.
"Don't spend it all in one place. I'll be downstairs if you need me."
For a moment, Toris regarded that mess of bills with disbelief. He had never held so much money at once. Granted, he had collected quite a bit through saving carefully and denying himself little pleasures. But still. This was a small fortune at least. For him it was.
That night, Toris bought himself a fine dinner and slept well afterwards.
