Amiya Wil's Arc

Chapter 3 of 8

Twelve days became eleven by the time Amiya finished the first cut Saturday morning. She pinned the new schedule above the cutting table and worked backward from the shoot date. Six finished looks. One photographer she could afford. One outdoor location she could book for free. She picked a public plaza with a tall reflective archway the city had installed last spring. The panels caught dusk light and threw it back in soft ribbons. She emailed the permit office before she opened her shears. The four women came in at seven each morning and stayed past dark. Amiya sewed beside them. She kept a leather folder on the corner of the cutting table with a thin display along its spine. Each finished look ticked one bar from red to gold. By day four, two bars were gold. By day seven, four. The studio smelled like steam and coffee. The gold letters on the front glass caught the streetlight every night when Amiya locked up alone. On day nine a shipment of lining came in the wrong weight. Amiya drove across the city, paid retail for the right bolt, and lost six hours. She slept on the cutting room floor that night and woke at four to finish the sixth hem herself. The seamstress who came in at seven found her at the machine and took the needle from her hand without a word. Amiya let her. She went upstairs and washed her face and put on her grandmother's gold hoops. They loaded the van at five on the morning of the shoot. The plaza was empty. The archway stood at the center, panels already catching the first light. The photographer set marks. The four women dressed the models, two of them from the recovery program, two booked from an agency that still answered Amiya's calls. Amiya pinned each look herself. She watched through the lens between shots and checked the folder after every change. One bar gold. Two. Three. They finished the sixth look at four in the afternoon, an hour before the permit ran out. Amiya sat on the stone step and opened the folder. Every bar was gold. She forwarded the proofs to the buyer from her phone before she stood up. The reply came in twelve minutes. Approved. Move to production on the remaining twenty-four. She read it twice and put the phone face down on her knee. That night she walked the proofs back to the studio and laid them out on the cutting table in a wide spread, the six looks fanning open like petals under the lamp. Six down. Twenty-four to go in thirty-eight days. The four women had gone home. Amiya stood alone at the table and thought of her mother's face. Then her phone buzzed. The buyer wanted a meeting Monday about adding a live launch event, and she had already booked the venue.