On the hook by the door, where I had hung it the night I drove back from the wedding, was the garment bag. I walked over and unzipped it and took out the small pair of scissors I had packed at five in the morning for a woman who considered my presence the emergency. I carried them to the cutting table.
Smoothed the ivory charmeuse flat. Lorraine had left a note tucked under the bolt, written on a receipt in her terrible handwriting. For your next client.
Not your next apology. I placed the scissors on the fabric, aligned the grain, and made the first cut. The charmeuse fell open the way it always does when the bias is right.
Like a breath let out slowly. Like a door someone finally decided to open from the inside. Outside, Broughton Street went on with its evening.
The banjo player, the smell of shrimp, the particular gold of October light through old glass. Ordinary things, continuing without drama, which is exactly how the best days actually feel when you are in them. My hands were steady.
The fabric was cool. The scissors were German steel, sharp enough to cut charmeuse without dragging. I cut along the bias the way I always do, slow and sure, letting the blade follow the grain instead of fighting it.
