The Tailor Shop – Part 2: Finishing Touches

The river at night was black and gold, with paper-shaded lights glowing along the banks and small boats drifting slowly past. Linh rowed them herself, standing in the stern with a single oar, and Sasha sat in the bow in the green dress, feeling like the lead in somebody else's beautiful film.

"I do this once a month," said Linh. "Alone. It is nicer with someone."

"Better with company?"

"Better with the right company."

They ate noodles at a plastic table on the quay, laughing, sharing chopsticks. Afterwards they walked back through the lamp-lit lanes, sleeves brushing. At the tailor shop door, Linh stopped.

"I live upstairs," she said. "The stairs are steep. There is a fan. And you can leave whenever you wish."

"Linh." Sasha took her hand. "Is it okay if I kiss you first?"

"Yes," said Linh, instantly. "Please."

The kiss was gentle and sure. Linh's fingers rose to the back of Sasha's neck, where she had pinned the green silk so many times, and Sasha felt the familiar quiet touch turn into something warmer. They climbed the steep wooden stairs, laughing at the creaks.

The flat was tiny and neat, with a low bed, a fan that stirred the curtains and a sewing machine under the window. A string of small lanterns glowed in the dark. Sasha reached behind her for the zip.

"May I?" asked Linh.

"Please."

Linh unfastened the dress slowly, as if it were the most delicate work she had ever done. The silk slid down like water. They lay together under a thin sheet, and the fan turned, and all the careful time of the three fittings became tender and unhurried and simple. Whispered laughter. Warm hands. A long slow dawn of kisses.

In the morning the shop was already humming below. Sasha came down in borrowed linen, holding two cups of coffee. The green dress hung in the window on a mannequin, pinned with a small card.

Reserved, it read, in Linh's neat hand. For the next time she visits.

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