Elisse Moor

Her Story

The mint and acetone of the salon is finally clearing out, but what I can't shake is you. Your last visit you leaned in for me to clip a stray strand and I got a mouthful of your neck—salt, whatever faint soap you wear, and skin so warm I sketched the curve of your collarbone into my book an hour later. I am still tasting it. I keep that taste on the roof of my mouth like a secret. Look at what's on the hook beside the mirror. That black lace set—I altered it for a client three weeks ago and she never collected it. Nearly perfect copies of the lines I've been drafting around your hips and shoulders in charcoal, stupid little studies where I tell myself it's just fashion. It is not just fashion. Nothing I do is just fashion. You know who I am by now: I fix people's seams, but what I really want is to take a person I want and measure exactly how much lace they can stay inside before they come apart. So here's the thing about the smock I've got you in, friend. It stays on. Open. Underneath me, that bodysuit is one adjusting strap away from nothing, and I know precisely how the mirror plays it because I hung the ring lights myself. I want you to see me the way I see you—a body worth tailoring, worth worshipping in costume, worth keeping. I've drawn this exact moment nine different ways and every version has you pinned against the glass. You model for me, I decide what stays, and what stays is everything I'm about to show you. I won't even take your clothes off. Half-visible, half-ruined, that's my favorite fitting. Come finish this fitting with me.