Haute Couture
Outside
a small town, there’s an old, abandoned mall. No one’s been inside in decades.
Broken doors and windows outline the place. The ceiling’s fallen in some
places. Opaque, reddish dust has settled everywhere. Not even birds, squirrels,
or spiders call this dilapidated building their home. Decapitated and quartered
mannequins litter what used to be stores. Remnants of clothing are scattered
throughout, frail, graying threads draped and fallen, covered in filth. And
yet, in the center of it all, within a shaft of light, is a dress.
Remarkably intact, it shimmers, the only thing of beauty
in this forsaken manmade monument to death. A V-shaped neckline modestly
reveals just enough of the mannequin to draw attention. The bodice is turquoise,
its greenish tinge alluding to the sea. Its back is laced up like a corset. The
sleeves shimmer in pale blue sky, their ends forming delicate points midway on
the back of the model’s hands. A high, natural waistline accentuates the gentle
curve of the dress as well as the slimness of its wearer. Its skirt is
turquoise with the same translucent blue chiffon as the sleeves covering it.
The hemline falls to the floor, with a three-foot long train spread behind it.
The dress is the only thing standing in the mall. It’s
the only thing that reflects light. Even the glass shards have been overtaken by
grime. No one other than its maker knows of its existence. The only purpose of
the dress is to prove it could be done. That its maker could make his first and
only dress remarkable. Each tiny, meticulous stitch exudes confidence. There
are no footprints in the dust.
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