I got the note fixed, then went to the tall window at the end of the gallery to get my breath back.
My reflection looked back at me in the dark glass. Dark hair. Strong hands. One type.
Then a charcoal sleeve came into the glass beside me.
Declan: You were right about the fork. The clerk changed the note.
He stood close. Close enough that I caught his soap, and my body woke up at it like it had been waiting.
Isla: I know I was right. I don't need you to confirm it.
His eyes went down to my hand. The little callus on my middle finger, from years of tweezers.
Declan: Cleve says you cut that part by hand. Four days.
Declan: Show me.
He lifted his hand like he might take mine, then stopped himself an inch away.
My skin went tight, waiting for a touch that never came.
Isla: Why. So you can call it a hobby again?
Isla: Say it. Say the work is real.
His jaw moved. He didn't answer, and the silence was its own answer.
His hand was still there, still not touching. I hated how much I wanted it to.
Vivienne: There you both are. Hiding by the window like a secret.
Cream silk. Fresh glass. That smile with the manicure behind it.
Vivienne: Declan, go be important. Someone wants to bid on something.
Vivienne: A word. Woman to woman. It won't take long.
I let her walk me behind the silver case, because leaving would have looked like running.
My heels sounded loud on the marble. Hers didn't.
She took a photo from her clutch. Old paper, soft at the corners.
Vivienne: A summer party, years ago. I keep it because I looked happy.
A young woman with long auburn hair, laughing at someone off camera. And a green coat.
Wide collar. Three dark buttons. A small tear at the pocket edge.
I knew that tear. I had sewn it closed myself last winter, at my own bench.
Isla: Where did you get this coat.
Vivienne: Declan bought it for me. Then he bought it again for you.
Vivienne: Same green. Same buttons. He even liked the tear.
My mouth went dry. That coat was hanging in my room. I wore it the day I met him.
Vivienne: I was his first. He never got over me. Ask anyone in this room.
Vivienne: Then he found a woman with my hair, my coat, my hands.
Vivienne: You weren't the wife, sweetheart. You were the stand-in.
Here's what being hit in the chest feels like. It doesn't hurt at first. It just goes quiet.
Isla: So he picked me because I look like you.
Vivienne: I'm telling you he picked the coat.
Isla: Then it's lucky for me he doesn't get to pick anything anymore.
My voice came out level. Inside, something came loose, like a screw rolling under a bench.
Vivienne: They all say that at first.
Vivienne: Keep it. You'll want it later, when you're wondering why he never looked at you.
She folded my fingers around it like a bill I owed.
Then she went back into the light, and the room closed over her like water.
The coat. The tear. My own stitch, in her picture.
Six months of dinners alone. Had he ever looked at me and seen me, or just the green wool?
I heard his laugh across the room. It sounded like a stranger's.
Across the gallery he turned his head and found me. One eyebrow up. A question.
I looked away first. Usually he did.
He could look all he wanted. It didn't mean he knew what he was looking at.
I folded the photo in half and put it in my bag, next to my loupe.
Then I walked back into that room with my chin up, because it was the only thing left to do.
But I knew what I'd be doing tonight. I'd be standing in front of my shop mirror, checking.