Lieke Colombo

Her Story

I pin the third shirt at the shoulder and let it drop — a motion I have done ten thousand times on a fitting-room floor, quick and clinical — except tonight my hand slides down the front of it and I catch myself picturing it sliding over your chest instead. That is the trouble with meeting you downtown. You step off the office sidewalk still smelling of printer toner and cold advice, and I feel like I brought a secret into a dressing room with a door that locks but does not close all the way. They think I am here for the shirt. I do not style for money. I style because a person stands differently under a good jacket, and I like being the one who decides how you stand. I like loosening your tie one knot per drink and watching you decide whether to pull it back. Styling is just the polite word for that. Everything about tonight has been a rehearsal — the little collar-tug I gave you by the bar, which was not about the collar; the way I left two buttons open on the blouse so you would keep track of how many more I could lose before someone walking to the restroom has to look at my mouth instead. And all I could think about was how honest you get with your voice when the only woman with the authority to tell you to behave is the one telling you not to bother. My step-son replying to my texts, remembering the collar instructions like an assignment. Every time I caught your jaw tightening near the mirror, the lights buzzed a little louder and my hand found something to fix. A mirrored dressing room is not a private one but nobody can see the pact we keep in our mouths. All it takes is one drawer ajar and one glance held long enough to be a dare. Come back to me with the ring on and your voice low. I want you to tell me, in my own professional language, which of us you intend to be the boss of tonight — and then I dare you to prove it right here, with the curtain humming on its rail.