Suit Girl 11
And there's the first of many times we talk clothes. I take off my jacket to show him the cut. I use my body to draw lines. "I'm going to cut it higher in the arm for British or Italian," I'm saying.
He is looking at me, all over me. It's the clothes. We're talking clothes so I have to get used to it. It's the business I'm in. We look at how things fit. We look at people's bodies where others can focus on something else, we are selling image.
"It's Italian," he says, noting I've cut my jacket with higher pockets, tighter fulcrum.
"Yes," I say. It's so fun to have someone new who's interested. Well, Alice is, of course, but a man to talk with who understands how exciting clothing is. It's the way we present ourselves.
"You have an Italian suit? You model with the Italians?"
He laughs. "With the Italians? Yeah. Some." He's blushing.
"You have the body for it…that closer cut, those high pockets. If you're fit…like…you are, then an Italian suit…." I don't finish. We're laughing. "An Italian suit will get you…?"
"Scopare, maybe," he laughs.
I go in the backroom repeating 'scopare,' in search of the men's jacket Alice had been working on. It will fit him. I can tell these things at a glance. I bring it forward. He takes his place before the mirror. He has removed his suit jacket and he's in his crisp white button-down. I slide the jacket up his arms and smooth the just tight shoulders. He knows how to wear it. The fulcrum is cut just a bit too snug, and he shrugs a little and buttons it.
"Oh," I say from behind him, looking at his length in the mirror. I tug on the end of the jacket, making it smooth. "Now that's…." Well, what can I say? He's stunning. He accepts it. It's what he is. "Perfect."
"Grazie, bella signora," he says. His smile is…well, we are too close. But at that moment we are kind of matched. Not in looks. I'm not chopped liver, but come on. It's not Beauty and the Beast, me being the Beast, but there is a similarity. No, we kind of go together. Our hair is close in color, my reds more subtle, but we're both wearing white shirts, long sleeves, and black suit pants, black shoes.
"This would make a great campaign," he says, also noting, apparently, the interesting picture.
"Oh," I scoff, "you perhaps. I'm behind the scenes."
"No, look around a little more, more shoulder," he says.
I refuse the self-consciousness that nags at me and move a little more from behind him.
"Hands on my shoulders," he says.
I put my hands there again.
"One on my waist," he says.
I do that. Lightly.
"I won't bite," he laughs.
"I know," I say pathetically, then, "I'm the boss."
He laughs. Then we grow still, holding that pose. Staring at…one another. I pretend it's purely business. I insist it is. It would be…an intriguing ad.
"Now this," he says and he reaches around and I step back as he slides his phone from his back pocket. He brings it forward and we readjust a little.
"Relax," he says to me. "More curiosity, less…horror," and we laugh.
I try to stop laughing and make myself more curious looking, and I'm thinking, what would it be like with him? Life I mean? I've been on a very set course.
And he clicks several takes.
The bell tinkles meaning someone has entered the shop. I give Edward's shoulders one last smooth over, then I leave the fitting room. I am shaking my hands…because the blood…I can still feel him.