Reaching Perfection //Kheft

Now don't hang on
Nothin' lasts forever but the earth and sky
It slips away
And all you money won't another minute buy

The store was nearly filled to the gills with women. Haughty, wealthy, primped like a gaudy flock of peacocks as they swished their way around the room, dresses rustling like tail feathers behind them.

I'd been busy most of the morning with these matrons of Capitol society. Managing the shopfront was the more exhausting of my duties. Where artistic renderings and garment designs allowed for peaceful hours spent rapt in what I enjoy most, the quiet restfulness around me with only the soft scratch of lead-tipped pencil across paper or swish of paintbrush on canvas. Sometimes I would take my easel down to the enormous city square with its sparkling fountain. Then if I closed my eyes…the sounds of running water, smell of paint on canvas, the bright sunlight…it was the closest I got to home. In those moments when homesickness grew overwhelming, Venus always knew she could find me there.

Today, she was deep in discussion with Lady Fitzberry who draped herself over the narrow counter, casting angry glances at the other patrons present. This rather pompous lady resented the fact that Venus refused to be her own personal stylist, and insisted on maintaining this shop catering to anyone with the money to purchase services. Married to one of the acclaimed Gamemakers, Lady Fitzberry was applauded as a leading diva of fashion. Numerous gowns in her closet were Oracle Designs, and that other ladies could purchase similar creations was a matter of deeply-seated discontent.

"Venus, I absolutely insist that I cannot commission this gown for next Reaping Day until I have seen the designs for Orencia Barrell's dress. I know you are the one designing it for her and must know what it looks like. I will not be upstaged by that woman again."

The argument had been going on for a good twenty minutes at this point, and it was all repetition of earlier statements. People in the Capitol took fashion as seriously as folks in District Four took…well, very little. Eating and not dying, maybe. Wearing similar dresses to a gala was the height of embarrassment for both parties; as was an influential lady being outshone by a newcomer to the upperclass circles.

"Lady Fitzberry, I am well aware of your requirements when you come to me for a design. Have I not always created something that you were pleased with? It my policy that all pre-fabrication depictions and patterns are kept strictly confidential. Was that not what attracted you to us originally? Every client is ensured that their garments are unique and we do not recreate them for anyone else. I can't very well make an exception for you despite your generous patronage."

The bell on the door chimed as another customer breezed in. Abandoning Venus to her current vexation, I gathered my tablet and prepared to attend the next spoiled, entitled fashionista. Granted, they weren't all that way, and she looked fairly normal by Capitol standards, but it seemed to be the trend for today.

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool
than to speak out and remove all doubt
- Mark Twain

As she handled the cocktail dress, a loose fitting caught on skin and sliced into her fingertip. I had to wince. I'd spent summers on fishing trawlers, hauling in the day's catch; sun scorching any exposed flesh, ropes biting into your palms, splintered masts bestowing their harsh blessing with fragments of wood embedding beneath nails and into unprotected feet. I'd assisted my father in his wood shop where sharp tools sliced through cedar or skin indiscriminately. Still…it's always the smallest wounds that are the most painful and frustrating, I think. Paper cuts…slivers…insect bites. I couldn't help but give a sympathetic cringe.

As we made eye contact across the room, I offered an apologetic smile. I really should have checked those clasps more closely for any sharp edges. I'm not entirely sure what I expected her reaction to be, but the look of irritation and almost…resentment, was not it. Did she blame me for the mishap? It certainly hadn't been intentional, accidents do happen. The injured finger was popped into her mouth and she sucked at it in an instinctive effort to ease the pain. That one small gesture was so simplistic and humanizing. It took her from prissy heiress to just…a girl. It was exactly the reaction Saamina would have had, and that overrode my own reticence to offer anything beyond professionalism to these people.


Without another thought, I hurried over to her, reaching out to extract the digit and inspect the small cut. It was shallow, a graze really, but it still oozed a little bit of blood.

"You don't happen to have a way to fix this do you?"

Her voice carried a tinge of seduction, which I found completely unnecessary. Of course I would patch her up, as I would have done for my sister who skinned her knee, or any small creature that was in pain. We didn't keep any medical supplies in the shop - we sew dresses here, not so many major injuries - so I fished out a clean handkerchief from my pocket and wrapped it around her finger. I know that not many folks keep handkerchiefs, or hankies as my sister called them when she was little; but my father always said that a man was never ready for the day without a knife, a handkerchief, and beer money in his pockets. These days my knife was traded in for a set of silver scissors, and coins were considered plebeian, but I still kept a square of muslin close at hand.

When the immediate crisis was resolved, I released her hand and glanced upward at a face that was creased inquisitively. Now was probably the time when I was supposed to open my mouth and say something charming and witty to smooth the situation over, maybe give a little laugh. And I did open my mouth, some residual habit from days when I still had a tongue in there. I was quick to close it again, a blush rising in my cheeks. I doubt very much that anything gruesome is visible from that angle, but sometimes opening my mouth feels very much like baring a particularly ugly birth defect. Instead, I snapped open my tablet and wrote the first thing that popped into my head.

"I hope that doesn't get infected. I'm sure losing your finger would be very inconvenient."

Even those of us with the modern convenience of translator tablets don't have the luxury of taking something back once it's said…or written. The simulated voice broadcasted my words, and I felt very much like flinging the smug device into a wall.

Why on earth would I say something like that? I should amend the situation! So instead of just brushing it off and trying to sell her something, I continued to make things worse as per usual.

"Not that you wouldn't do just fine with nine fingers, so long as you aren't a musician…or a painter…and juggling might be difficult."

Juggling?!

The moment my words registered in her head, I could see it visibly, like a physical blow. She started shaking and the blood drained from her face as if the cut finger was a mortal wound. I had seen dead men with more color than this girl. I hurried to find a chair and was relieved when she sank into it. I could just imagine how it would look if she collapsed in the middle of the floor in a shop where I worked as a punished criminal. They would probably convict me of assault, drag me away to jail; this time I would lose more than just a little-used tongue.

My thoughts whirled, tossed against the sides of my skull with such imagined force that I felt a headache beginning to tighten it's tendrils of pain around my temples and gouge at the backs of my eyes. How was it that without even a tongue, my words still managed to create such a world of trouble and frustration? I could paint a picture or design a gown that would have any number of Capitol social elites praising my skills to the skies, but the minute I tried to put such expressions into verbal constraints...

"That can't happen from a small cut, can it?"

Her words squeaked out in a voice full of fear and apprehension, what could make someone so afraid of such a small injury? It was almost negligeable, and yet she looked close to tears. My insides felt hot with shame. What sort of person was I to incite this reaction? How could I be so thoughtless? My mind was scrambling around for a method of wiping the anxiety from her face and hopefully setting it all to rights, reassuring her that the skin would heal without blemish. Before I came close to finding a solution, she rallied and did what I assume was her best to change the topic. In relief, I let her.

"I'm here for Brooke. Is she around?

I opened my mouth and shut it...for the second time this morning. I don't know what had my impulses bypassing the mental circuits, but for some reason my nerves were playing jokes with my body and passing along messages that I still had a working tongue. I could only imagine the picture I presented, opening and shutting my mouth like some kind of fish out of water. I'd lived with this imposed disability for years, why was I suddenly struggling? I sneaked a humiliated glance at the girl again. Maybe it was the fact that she looked at me with the horror I had first felt after the procedure. Most in the Capitol were accustomed to Avoxes; they no more spared us a second thought than we did for the pesky gulls in District Four. Not this young lady, it was painfully obvious that my shortcomings made her uncomfortable, and here she was waiving an appointment slip in my face and asking for a female Brooke. Should I disabuse her of the notion that there was a pleasant young woman who would come and whisk her away from the disgusting Avox.

I glanced across to where Venus was still deep in debate with Lady Fitzberry. I couldn't realistically pull here away from that situation, and there was simply no one else to take this client on. So, I mustered my courage and tried to give the girl my pleasantest and least intimidating smile.

"I'm very sorry for the misunderstanding, but I am Brooke. I will be helping with your fittings today if that is alright with you. If you prefer to have a female assist, then of course there is no offense, but we will need to reschedule as Venus is otherwise occupied at the moment, and I'm afraid we have no other staff."

I guided her away from the front room and back towards the studio and fitting areas. Here I could be professional and here I knew my place and my way around the appropriate subjects. A deep breath, slowly inhaling and letting it out to wash away the stress and the last few minutes of blundering. She was here to purchase some garments, and we sold pieces of exceptional quality. That was all either of us needed to focus on.

"I like blue, ocean blue…"

Relaxation slowly returned, and with it my mental acuity. We didn't stock many ready-made garments. There were a few -- tastefully displayed in the shop windows -- but these were mostly to give illustration of our skills. Oracle Design's forte was in pandering to every society diva's need to present an original and interesting face. There were a plethora of stores in which any number of lovely dresses could be purchased. Those who sought Venus out were looking for something truly exceptional, and she never disappointed. They were not the sort of clientele to be contented with a dress off the rack; their desire was for a piece created specifically for their own persona. It was a niche that we filled with panache.

Even as this girl -- Everly, according to the appointment booking -- continued in her list of requirements and credential verifications, my brain was already clicking through our inventory and trying to select suitable options. Venus had fallen into the habit of allowing me some creative latitude, and I occasionally designed and created a dress or outfit as artistic practice. These were typically the ones kept in-house for exhibition; which meant I was intimately acquainted with their details. Her own outfit was tastefully, if slightly monochromatically, coordinated. It was elegant, but fairly simplistic, with no wild fashion statements. Everything about her appearance was polished and pinned. No loose threads on her cuffs or escaping curls from her styling; she would not be a personality to gravitate towards dresses that could be easily crushed, wrinkled, or otherwise become disorderly.

"Do you design the dresses yourself, or have them outsourced?"

Her words nearly floated past me without comprehension, but I set aside my mental cataloguing long enough to attend the query. I also noticed that she was inspecting me nearly as closely as I was her. Although her expression still bordered on disgust and mistrust, the initial shock of my condition must have worn off.

"All of our designs are original, and while Venus does not personally sew the garments, we have our own tailors and seamstresses in employ and Venus performs final adjustments."

The fitting room was a small parlor, arranged with wealthy clients in mind. A chaise lounge against the far wall provided seating for non-purchasing parties, along with a few plush chairs. Beveled-glass lamps perched on the pair of matching end tables, their fringe of crystal drops sending decorative sparks flitting across the floor. A tea service was laid, with a platter of sweets, and I motioned for Everly to enjoy the comfort while I selected items for her perusal.

I left here there, the curtain between storefront and studio rooms swishing shut behind me, and purposeful steps drew me from one display to the next. I knew already what I wanted, it was just a matter of stripping the items from their mannequins and securing them on hangers with a few of the appropriate accessories. She wanted blue, like the ocean…but for a girl living out her life in the land-locked Capitol, I doubted that she knew what that meant. The ocean was a fickle nymph, her color as transmutable as the sky itself. It was moody and expressive, changing color to suit her own pleasure. I missed stepping out of the house each morning and seeing what new face the sea had chosen that day. Saamina and I used to make a game of it, trying to give the scenery an emotion.

Today she's angry Sam might say. Those swift swells and dark waters…looks like a temper tantrum to me. If I had time, I might capture it in paint or pencil, trapping the moment on canvas to admire later. I'd wished so many times they had allowed me to bring some of those memories with me, but it was a pleasant thought that maybe Sam was taking comfort in them.

Delicate fabrics in hand, I retreated once again to the back room. My entrance must have been soft, because I found Everly standing over the tea tray with her back to me. I was almost halfway across the room before I realized that she hadn't heard me. I screeched to a stop only about three feet behind her and wondered if I should clear my throat to make her aware of my presence.

CRASH Bits of shattering porcelain hit the floor, skittering across its smooth surface into various corners of the room and disappearing beneath pieces of furniture. Her move was so abrupt that I had no time to react and sidestep, instead she walked face first into me. My first instinct being to make sure she didn't fall, I dropped everything I was carrying, letting it all land haphazardly about my feet. Delicate satins and easily-damaged silks mixed in a dismal heap that I could only hope wasn't being stepped on or marred with tea and chocolate stains.

Browsing customers and others waiting to be attended craned their necks to see the cause of so much commotion. It was a sudden searing scrutiny, and Everly's cheeks seemed to warm beneath it. She flinched away from me as though I might be contagious. Last time I checked, miss, being an Avox wasn't catching… It was probably fortunate that I had no tongue to make the comment with, and my writing tablet was MIA. The situation was humiliating enough, and any bungling words out of me would only make it worse, as I had adequately demonstrated earlier. She dropped to her knees and started gathering up the scattered garments, her whispered words nearly lost into the background babble of voices.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry for running into me? Then why did her expression look so serious, why was she staring so hard at my face that it appeared like she was trying to peel back my skin and see beneath it? I'd never felt so acutely aware of my flaws as I did in her presence -- this beautiful girl with every hair in place and wrinkle smoothed from her clothing. Her tone of voice and carefully chosen words, the coordination of her outfit, everything spoke of an obsessively meticulous girl. Under such standards, I can only imagine what a permanently crippled and useless creature I resembled. Broken. Ugly.

Men aren't supposed to cry, or to feel emotional pain. Women all like to tell us those standards aren't necessary, but they propagate them to a greater degree than other men do. Still, a fishing village is not an environment that allows for much sensitivity, none of the Districts are. Death is an intimately familiar part of life. I can't tell you the last time I cried, not even when they turned me into an Avox, I'd never cried for that. So now, at this innocuous moment in time when all I'd done was drop a few dresses on the floor, I was suddenly struggling to hold back some sense of loss and insufficiency overwhelming enough to threaten tears. It isn't that I was afraid of looking less…manly in front of this client, but I knew that once I let the emotion out, there would be no bottling it back up. I was a professional, and professionals stuff their feelings down to examine later.

I stood. The dresses collected, I refused to look at Everly, but focused on the straightforward task of laying them out for advantageous viewing. I matched the sparse accessories selected. We didn't market jewelry or shoes, but occasionally we did take a piece or two on commission from another vendor. Venus and I were of like minds when it came down to accessorizing. The dress should never be overly cluttered or upstaged by a necklace or pair of earrings. What little I now arranged was just a touch to accentuate a color here and a neckline there. Ideas only.

At last my face felt marginally less stiff and paralyzed, and I could blink my eyes without fear that unwanted tears might spill over, I turned at last. Gesturing for Everly to examine my work, I hunted around for the absentee tablet. Locating the device beneath the chaise, I resorted to a very undignified scrabbling around on hands and knees to retrieve it. Fortunately no damage was sustained other than a piece of macaroon stuck to the screen, which I hurriedly cleaned away with a napkin.

My hand hovered, stylus pinched tightly between thumb and forefinger. Should I apologize as well? Acknowledge the accident? Make light of it? Least said soonest mended, I chose to ignore and move on.

"I hope you don't mind I took the liberty of bringing a few options that aren't blue. I think you'll find they similarly compliment your complexion. The fitting room is just here if you would like to try one on."

I helpfully raised one of the hangers. The fluttering layers of sheer organza and matte silk in shades of black and charcoal created an ethereal affect as the movement caught them and lifted the gown. The fitting room was a single alcove separated by a heavy velvet curtain that slid back on its rod. Floor to ceiling mirrors paneled its walls, edged in narrow brass. The hanger clicked into place on the provided hook; my hands flowed over the material, reluctant to release it. Fine silk was a luxury my life never knew before coming to the Capitol. I still couldn't get past the cool indulgence of it sliding between my fingers. It's strange how small things can remind you that life isn't all bad, no matter what the bigger picture may look like.

:: :: ::

Her hand slid across mine, nearly matching the texture of the material. In the Districts, no one has hands so smooth and unblemished. Hard work builds calluses and lends any number of scars and rough skin. I'd never thought twice about it, but then again, it wasn't as if I'd touched many girls' hands. I kept to myself for the most part, and my speech had ensured that few folks bothered to cross those unwritten boundaries. Now Everly's fingers were lightly stroking across my knuckles, and I hadn't a clue in the world if it was accidental or intentional. Was she merely admiring the dress? I was lost in a sudden quandary of social norms and inter-gender interpretations, probably the one thing that I was worse at than talking.

"It's beautiful." Her head angled upwards, tentative gaze meeting mine, and even if I'd had a tongue I would have found myself unable to use it. I was panicking, my internal thermostat flashing between hot and cold, cruelly refusing to settle on one temperature or the other. I knew I was overreacting, but my brain refused to send that calming certainty as directives to the nerve endings that screamed "DANGER, DANGER!" to the rest of my body. I think I might have started to sweat a little, and of course that just made me even more anxious. What was she trying to say in that one little statement? Did she mean the dress? Then why was she looking at me instead of admiring the garment? Or was she trying to say she thought I…was…?

I noticed somewhere in the midst of all the mental chaos that her eyes were an unusual palette of colors, like a bit of paint that has been accidentally mixed with the wrong brush. Their dark chocolate hue was dabbed here and there with muted tones of mossy green and dapples of gold, my fingers itched to try and recreate their shading in the richness of oil paint. I let the distraction soothe me, falling comfortably into the artistic speculation that was as near meditation as my mind retreated to. It worked, however, and my fingers stopped their nervous shaking. I was reading too much into this. Whatever the intended meaning behind her words, she was obviously trying to put me at ease and there was perhaps a hint of apology clinging to her tone. Neither of us were comfortable in this situation. She was making the best of it, why couldn't I seem to pull myself together today and do the same? So, I offered her a smile, and as it tugged at my lips I realized it wasn't forced but came quite genuinely for this girl.

The curtain slide shut, screening her modestly from view, and I could here the clink of hanger and swish of fabric as she changed into the dress. A soft sound of exasperation came from inside the dressing room, and then when she stepped out, it was with one arm hugging the material to her chest. Everly twisted a little, presenting her back to me, and I could see that the zipper was only halfway fastened and had jammed on a bit of the lining.

"Do you mind helping?"

It took me only a minute to set the dress to rights, gently tugging the zipper up the rest of the way and fastening the hook and eye clasp at the top. That done, it now hugged her torso snugly enough to remain in place without her assistance. She released her death grip and performed a slow pirouette.

"What do you think?"

The words were forced out awkwardly, and I immediately wondered if she was uncomfortable modeling the garment for a man. She wasn't looking at me though, her gaze frequently flicked past where I stood, and when I turned, I saw that a couple of other ladies in the shop were giving her unpleasant glances. My face felt hot again, this time with irritation at our audience for making Everly self-conscious. I found myself squaring my shoulders and focusing back on her silk-garbed frame. The dress was lovely, and it flowed around her hips and legs in clean, breezy lines. At the torso it became slightly distorted, I was just reaching out to try pinning it for alteration when I noticed the wrinkling was due to her slumped posture and rounded shoulders. She was hunching over, tucking her chest in closer defensively. Now, I'm not woman whisperer, or what have you, but it was fairly obvious that she was trying to minimize the shape of her chest…I suppose she had also mentioned that fact to me earlier.

My hands reached out of their own volition, and I lightly corrected her stance by pushing her shoulders back. I wanted to tell her that she looked beautiful, perfect…somehow wipe that uncertainty from a face that seemed molded for confidence. Was that too familiar? She might think I was flirting with her.

"The dress suits you perfectly." Should I say more? I rubbed idly at a callus on my palm, debating what words would be appropriate. Finally giving up on that lost cause, I instead tipped her chin upwards with my thumb and index finger. My lips formed the silent word 'jealous' in exaggerated enough form that she was sure to catch its meaning, and I shared a conspiratorial wink.