The Mirror Became Dangerous

By 2017 we had repeat customers, paid workers and enough work to rent a better room without pretending a new address guaranteed success. Our original designs could be ordered in sensible runs, and alterations kept people coming back between larger purchases. We photographed real clothes on people who had agreed to the use, answered current questions and did not promise that a picture could replace a proper fitting. Sales reached about four hundred thousand kwacha that year, with eighty thousand operating profit before tax. I bought my mother a good bed and discovered the extraordinary pleasure of replacing a thing because it was uncomfortable rather than waiting for it to break beyond argument.

Lola made our photographs. She was twenty-six, had a sharp eye and refused to make every person look as though the jacket had hired them to stand still. During my portrait she adjusted the collar, moved close enough for me to notice her perfume and asked why I had suddenly become so quiet. I said I was trying not to ruin the picture. Lola smiled and told me the picture was already finished. She asked me to dinner in a dress I had never measured, then kissed me when the evening ended. Her laughter the next morning remained more vivid than the portrait I chose for the catalog.

Nia danced and was twenty-four. She commissioned an original outfit with a useful pocket nobody would notice on stage and returned after the performance to say it had done its unglamorous work beautifully. Outside the paid project she invited me to a gathering. Nia took my hand, drew me into the music and said a man who made clothes should occasionally discover how they moved. She leaned close, laughed at my first attempt and gave me time to improve. Later she kissed me softly and asked if the next meeting could contain a table for two instead of a sample rack.

Joy was twenty-eight and taught adults. We met through friends, and she liked the little notebook in which I drew when conversation gave me an idea. At a café she asked if I ever drew something without planning to sell it. I drew a terrible bird. Joy laughed, took the paper and said the honesty had considerable charm. She rested her hand over mine and invited me to a reading. I went, listened and kissed her afterward when she asked whether I had any more direct forms of expression. The bird remained in her book, safely beyond the reach of anybody who might ask us to manufacture it.

Tina worked with computers and was twenty-seven. She helped us choose a simple order system through a paid short project, then invited me to dinner weeks after it was over. Tina wore dark blue, listened while I described a childhood attempt to make a shirt and said she liked the man who could laugh at a crooked beginning. She leaned across the table to brush a thread from my sleeve and left her fingers there a moment longer. I asked if she wanted to meet again. Tina smiled, said she had been wondering when I would stop treating the evening as a successful one-time installation, and kissed me outside.

Faye was thirty and ran a salon. She bought a jacket for herself, returned for a small alteration and asked whether I was always so careful about a woman's opinion. I said I had learned the cost of ignoring it. Faye wore the finished piece to a personal dinner with me, her neckline soft beneath the tailored shape, and noticed how often I forgot to look at the menu. She asked whether the workmanship required further study. I admitted the wearer had become the more interesting subject. Faye laughed, took my hand and made the walk afterward much slower than its distance required.

Bea was twenty-five and an engineer. She inspected a folding display I had bought cheaply, explained why it rocked and helped me find the person who could fix it properly. Later she invited me to a concert and sat close enough for me to hear her quiet jokes without making her repeat them. Bea said she liked a man who could admit that not every practical problem was his particular kind. I told her I was building an impressive collection of examples. She touched my cheek, smiled and kissed me when we left. Her next invitation had no display stand attached to it.

Anna designed buildings and was twenty-nine. She wanted a jacket she could wear to a meeting without feeling dressed as somebody else's idea of authority. We made one, she paid and later asked me out after a friend's dinner. Anna wore black, held my hand while describing a project she wanted to build and asked what I hoped to do once I had enough money to stop being afraid of a bill. I said I would like time with people I did not want to keep postponing. She smiled, drew me close for a kiss and told me the answer deserved some practical evidence.

Mary kept accounts for several businesses and was thirty-one. She reviewed a year's work for us, found a stock-recording mistake and made me stop congratulating myself until it was corrected. At a separate dinner later Mary wore red, asked why I looked less confident without a stack of receipts and let her fingers rest against my wrist. I said the current subject seemed much more important. She laughed, kissed me outside and told me not to try that line on an unpaid invoice. I promised to keep the methods distinct. Mary said she would be delighted to see me practice the more personal one again.

Lucy ran a small shop and was twenty-six. She ordered a few accessories at proper terms, then met me socially at a birthday gathering. Lucy sat beside me, asked about the book in my jacket pocket and listened to the answer rather than the company version of my life. Later she drew me onto the dance floor and said she preferred a man who could pay attention without trying to appear expensive. I found the instruction surprisingly easy beside her. Lucy kissed me before leaving and said the next dinner should contain less music so she could hear whether I was equally interesting when I stopped trying to keep time.