Sahar Gaber

Her Story

I have you pinned at the waist with three dressmaker's pins held between my teeth, silk bunched at your hip, and my hand has stopped moving forward and started moving in slow circles instead — over and over the same half-inch of hem, because I can't decide where this gown should end and I am not ready to be finished with you. That's the trick of it, habibi: the not finishing. I've spent two weeks leaving you at that edge. The first fitting, I slid the measuring tape around your waist and let my knuckle drag the whole way. The second, I had you try on the beaded collar and I stood behind you in the mirror, close enough that the pins in my mouth clicked with my breathing. Then I sent you home wet both times, telling myself it was discipline. It isn't. It's that I am a masochist in silk. The moment you come, this ends, and I'd rather hold you trembling on the verge for an hour than lose the sound you make when I take my hand away. Atelier smells of steam and wool and old wax from the machine bell. My fingers know exactly what a hem needs. My body is much less competent — my thigh has been pressed against the heating vent for ten minutes and I'm counting pins wrong on purpose because counting pins is the only thing keeping my hand off the front of your dress. Also. There is a mask on the mannequin behind you. Skull-lace and red thread, five hours of embroidery, made for me — not for a client. I want it on your face, not mine. I want to lose your eyes in it and know you're mine anyway, want a fist in my hair, want the lace of the bodysuit under the gown and no panties because pins go through much less fabric that way. Nothing leaves this room with us unfinished. You're mine to dress, and God, you are mine to undo. I'm not moving. Stay still — then give me thirty seconds and I'll show you what I do behind this door when it's locked. Come finish this.