Chapter Text
- MC 🧡 -
Commissions have slowed to a crawl lately...
The first week of rehearsals at the community theatre have been spoon-fed to me leisurely. If I'm not running the boutique, I'm here, sitting in a back room filled with dusty costumes and the hazy smell of mothballs.
There's a small desk that acts as my personal station. The sad little surface is strewn with my supplies I crammed to fit. That damned sewing machine is a monster who hogs up half of my real estate. A costume I'm stitching up hangs from its maw, the needle stationary and taunting me with the looming threat of another late night.
The other half is a chaotic system that looks more like an interrogation of my sketchbook than anything else. An old desk lamp provides one of my only sources of light in this cramped space, aside from the sunbeams that stream through the window during the day.
Unfortunately, I don't get much of those daylight hours while I'm at work. As a result, I've gotten well acquainted with the old bulb that hums when you cut it on, and the warm, at times nauseating, orange light it spits out.
I sit in a forgotten chair that taps against the carpet whenever I shift my weight to get comfortable. Well, as comfortable as I can be on a cheap cushion supported by a tarnished, ochre frame.
I've tried fixing its stubborn off-center tilt during the first week of sitting. It drove me nuts, so when I thought I was alone, I flipped the thing upside down and drove a screwdriver into the bolts like I had something to prove. It wasn't until one of the actors came to check on me in the middle of me cursing out the seat that I realized I was, in fact, not alone in the theatre.
One of the main leads, too. He said he was concerned as he passed by the room; he thought an argument had broken out, but no. He was instead met with the pathetic scene of me sprawled in the middle of dirty, red carpet with a chair as my opponent.
I remember looking up, absolutely mortified, as I tried to hide the screwdriver I was wielding like a psycho with a kitchen knife.
He had been polite enough to hold in his laughter and asked if I had hurt myself. "Nothing other than my pride," is what I recall saying. His outstretched hand pulled me from my misery when I took it.
He chided me with a smile about how a pretty lady shouldn't be sitting on the floor. That's when I was sure I wasn't anything but a glorified mess in that moment.
Leaning into my palm, I glance over to my reference sheet which still houses blanks in places where his measurements should be. I feel the nerves pooling in my belly, knowing I will have to see him again at some point to retrieve this information.
"Zen" : Chest ___ Waist ___ Hips ___ Inseam ___
I've been avoiding him to save myself the embarrassment.
Despite everything, however, I'm happy. I have chosen that I am happy in this room with my passions rather than hunched over a minimalistic desk in some corporate building, making a livable wage. A shudder wracks through me at the thought of my only source of comfort being a mug full of pens that reads "EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH" amongst a sea of manila folders, and spreadsheets, and an x-ed out calendar that is practically a goodbye to any plans outside of work.
My eyes travel to the window before me. The panels are crisscrossed with dark muntins, etched to form a diamond pattern on a less-than-luxury piece of glass. Murmuring colleagues linger beyond the door of my closeted office, and my mind melts to nothing.
I’m lost in the waiting game with the cars below. Lights all red in the dark of the city traffic jam. Nobody moves, yet it's clear how they all want to go home with the way the vehicles eagerly inch forward with each new modicum of space that's granted.
A heavy exhale leaves my chest. Sometimes I'll leave my lopsided chair and sit on the desk just to get a better view of the lamp-lit streets below. Sometimes I'll open it too. It'll protest with a shrill squeak as I push it outward, but the fresh winter breeze that comes through is worth it.
No way in hell would I want to work in this place during the summer or spring. This room would suffocate me before the end of my commission. But... If the theatre does hire me again, I might have to endure it. I need all the money I can get, scraping by like this just isn't cutting it.
Knock, knock!
"Miss Designer? Are you here?"
My posture straightens with an instinctive kind of alarm. Quickly, I'm out of my seat for the umpteenth time today.
"Yes! I'm here!"
As I'm reaching for the door handle, it swings backwards into me. It body checks me so suddenly that a yelp escapes my lips, more from surprise than real injury.
"Oh—! Ah, I'm so sorry!" The stranger apologizes.
With closed eyes, I wince, rubbing my forehead where I had been knocked good. "No, no, it's okay!"
The sharp pain surged right between my brows and underneath to the bone.
My reassurance probably isn't very convincing.
"I should have waited..."
"It's not your fault, it's a small space." I insist patiently.
The curtains of my eyelids raise, and it finally registers to me who I'm talking to. Familiar fingertips go to inspect where I had been hit, carefully moving my hand aside.
Crimson pupils come into my view. It’s Zen who leans down to look at me.
Gooseflesh breaks out in subtle bumps along the skin under my sleeves.
"It's okay, really," I say, breaking away from him unceremoniously, hoping he doesn't think of me as rude. It's just intimidating!
Fortunately, he laughs it off, and my tense shoulders relax. If only a little. Be still, my foolish heart.
"I really have to stop walking in on you like this."