Her needle punctured the fabric.
Dancing in and out, sewing what was to be, her best creation yet. The red satin fell like waterfalls.
It looked silky, and beautiful but yet, made you feel as though you shouldn’t touch it. It flowed out at the bottom like a red pool of blood, when worn it would give the illusion that the wearer was floating.
She debated adding jewels. So simplistic was the design that whomever wore it, would sparkle nonetheless. However, she wanted to indulge in creating something that would stop even the most committed husbands on the coming weekend.
All heads would turn, not just at the beauty of the woman but also at the glowing fullness of the red gown. She thought about these things as she continued to sew, and wondered whether this would be enough. Show everyone that she was more than what all of the rumours said.
As her thoughts began to drift into seperate seas she looked down and realised with horror that she had made a wrong stitch. A gush of chilling warmth spread over her and she began to panic. It was connecting the bodice to the skirt and would be very noticeable. No jewels nor beads would hide her ghastly mistake. This eyesore on the gown she was so passionate about. She told herself she would simply have to calm down, for tears were now pricking at the corners of her eyes - needles drumming at her neck from the effort to stop from crying.
“It really wasn’t so bad” she lied to herself as tearfully, she started to unpick it. She could make it work, maybe she could try to hide it in the folds or was it simply too ugly that she would just start over again?
No.
As though struck by lightning, she gathered up scraps of extra fabric and sewed them around the bodice, creating a sort of tunnel, loop shape. And she bent over to her drawer and took out a long piece of black satin she was saving for another dress. There would be another moment for that dress, but right now, as of this moment. This black satin could save her design.
She began to thread the material through the loops and brought it around the back. The mannequin which was modelling the dress for her, stared blankly at her and she imagined it was grinning. As she put the finishing touches on the stitches she stepped back to admire her work.
And suddenly it wasn’t the mannequin wearing the dress, it was her.
Stopping just above her bosom, the dress held itself up in all the right places straps would be simply fatuous. The fabric felt soft and gentle against her skin and the absence of sequins and other decorative commodities seemed like the right choice.
The skirt flowed from the bodice like water from a tap and with a final movement, she tied the black material into a bow at the back.
The perfect touch, on the perfect dress.
Comments