The Seamstress – Part 2: The Fitting

The dress took three weeks.

Joana worked in the evenings, after the clients had gone, with the lamp on and the radio low. She cut the silk herself, deep jade green, light as water, with a bias drape that moved like breath. She basted. She pinned. She stitched seams by hand with tiny, even stitches. Inês, staying late on the pretext of sweeping, watched her bend over the work and felt something warm and aching open in her chest.

On a Friday in October, the dress was ready.

"Try it," said Joana.

Inês slipped it on behind the screen. The silk was cool and soft. It slid over her shoulders and hips like a second skin. When she stepped out, Joana, who was kneeling with a pincushion, rose slowly to her feet and said nothing for a long time.

"Is it wrong?"

"No."

"It feels..."

"It fits."

"It fits perfectly."

"I measured you," said Joana, quietly. "I listened."

The evening sun poured gold through the windows, lighting the dress to emerald. Inês turned slowly in front of the long mirror. Her face, in the glass, was flushed and luminous.

"I don't know what to say."

"Don't."

"Joana."

"Can I ask you something?" said Joana, her voice rough. "May I kiss you, Inês? I have wanted to since the first measurement."

Inês's heart tripped. "Yes. And if I say stop, you must make me every dress I ever wear."

"That's what I was hoping."

Joana kissed her, tender and unhurried, a hand rising to the silk at Inês's shoulder. Inês kissed her back, warm and wholehearted, her fingers curling in Joana's rolled sleeve. The radio played a slow fado. A pin dropped, unnoticed, onto the floor.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Joana.

"Green," said Inês. "Very green."

They opened a shop of their own in the spring: Joana & Inês, Alfaiataria. The green dress hangs in the window. It is not for sale.

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