He had heard through certain… channels… that the entire population of Deep Space Nine was on a mission. A fool's mission. Or perhaps it was a mission of mercy. If his sources were right – and they always were! – the latest pastime on the station was spending an evening with Morn. Even the First Minister of Bajor was reportedly seen sitting on a barstool next to him at Quark's.
"It seems rather … shortsighted … for everyone on the station to share their deepest, darkest secrets with Morn," Garak thought to himself, as he straightened the clothes on their hangers. "Anyway, what good are secrets, if they are passed around, freely, like cheap hors d'œuvres at a party?
Alas, it was his time to join the rest of the station in this bizarre ritual. Confiding in Morn. Never in a million years would he have guessed his life would come to this. As if peddling ladies scarves wasn't an indignation enough for the former agent of the Obsidian Order.
The Cardassian tailor slowly made his way to the door of his tailor shop. He hesitated. He paused. He carefully arranged each one of his creations as he walked passed them. He lingered at each dress and each scarf, as he ran his fingers down the soft fabric. He made sure each thread was in its correct place. He brushed the lint off the wool jackets. He gently guided Tholian silk to its proper position on a padded hanger.
All the while, he tried to conjure up a story – a confession – to share with the Lurian. He considered every possible storyline, and twisted each one beyond recognition. He weighed each word, until a word was no more than a mere suggestion. And like strands of thread in an intricate tapestry, the subtext that he planned on weaving throughout his narrative would need to be perfectly placed. Yet, like a seam in a finely tailored shirt, the true construction of each thread should not be too obvious, lest it be considered garish.
He considered a patchwork quilt, of a dialog consisting of thousands of pieces of cloth. Or perhaps his words could be thinly veiled and ethereal, like the loose wrap that draped off the shoulders of an Aenar Guard on Andoria.
Yes. When it came to creating a story, Garak knew that he needed to consider all the possibilities.
Finally, when he believed he had woven his tale, he left his shop, locked the door behind him, and made his way through the promenade. He wasn't sure if he looked forward to the challenge, or if this whole fool's errand was a complete waste of his time.
Still, Garak rather liked Morn. After all, if there was one thing that Cardassians loved, it was conversation. And Morn was exceptional at it.
Oh, not in the way that his conversations with Doctor Bashir were exceptional. The Doctor, after all, was spectacular. Incredible, even.
The weekly luncheons he shared with the young doctor were delicious. But every time Garak sat down with the Doctor for a meal, the banter was always far better than the food. Each word they exchanged was rich. Each debate - spicy. Like a box of dark Dalavian Chocolates, the texture of their conversation was complex. Each bite drew him in, deeper and deeper. The sweet tastes of conversation lingered on his tongue.
These lunches appealed to his senses – all of them. The emotions they conjured were powerful – more powerful even than hunger. Indeed, he craved spending time with the Doctor, more and more each day.
Yes, when it came to titillating conversations, the Doctor was in a category all his own.
As he approached the bar, Garak took a deep breath, and composed himself. He was still convinced that the whole endeavor was utterly absurd. Just what was the point of confessing your deepest secrets to the station's resident gossip? After all, there was no way that Morn could keep a secret.
Why torture the man?
And with that thought, Garak smiled and entered the bar.
"Good evening, Morn!" Garak seemed to sing, as he approached him from behind. "I must say, I am quite surprised to find you sitting here alone! May I join you? And I see you already have a drink…"
"Tell me, my friend," the tailor continued, excited to begin his work. "Just how well do you know Doctor Bashir…?"