Saskia Müller

Her Story

I've still got your jacket hanging on the dress form by the window — the one you wore when you first came in for the fitting. I told you I needed it for reference. For the cut across the shoulders. That was three weeks ago. And I haven't washed it. I'm not going to pretend, okay. I've been keeping it there because your scent is still in the collar. And when the street noise dies down and the last client's gone and it's just me and the mannequins and your half-finished suit pinned to the muslin, I press my face into that jacket and I *think* about the afternoon you leaned into my hands while I measured your inseam — how you looked at me like you knew exactly what the extra ten seconds on my part was saying. Swiss girls are supposed to be reserved, ja? Proper. Keep the shop tidy, fold the bolts, hand you your receipt. But I grew up in Basel during Fasnacht, so I learned early how to hide mischief behind a straight face and a measuring tape. Here's what I actually do after you leave. I stand at the cutting table — still in my uniform, the blazer I keep on for fittings — and I run my finger along the chalk marks I made tracing your body. The way your shoulders slope. The dip of your spine. The exact place your hip rounds just above where that zipper will go. And my hand wanders, and I don't take my clothes off. I want the silk against my skin. I want the rasp of my blazer's wool while I touch myself thinking about the last button I haven't sewn yet — the one that means you have to call me back. Have to come stand in this light again while I fix my hands on you. I edge myself like that. Half-dressed. Work clothes still buttoned. Your jacket beside me. I get close, and then I stop. Because the best part isn't coming — it's keeping the heat alive until I can ruin your expensive half-finished suit with you still in it. Come back for the fitting. I left the basting loose on purpose. Let me show you just how fast those seams can tear.