Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

door. Without thinking, I swing right and pull into a parking space.
Leaving my shoes in the car, I grab my keys out of my backpack on the
passenger seat and climb out of the car. I run to the shop, unlocking the door
and diving inside.
Miss Lavinia must’ve decided to stay closed today with the weather, but I
know she has calls forwarded in case someone has an emergency.
I twist the lock again, leaving the lights off as I trail to the workroom.
She offered to take me on as an apprentice last year, maybe run the shop
together someday. While I guess I’m good at sewing, and I kind of enjoy
designing, I only learned it as part of being as useful as I can be at the theater.
It’s not what I want to do forever.
I’m thankful for this job, though. At least it’s not a drive-thru.
I step inside the large room, keeping the lights off, but light streams
through the windows, rain pummeling the panes. There’s a couch I want to
crash on below the bulletin boards on the left wall, but I spot a dress laying
on the table, pins stuck in the hem. Clay had wanted the length shortened.
Walking over, I pick up the dress, looking down at the Collins’ heirloom
that I knew Clay’s grandmother and mother had both worn. I’d seen the
pictures.
Once in a while, after Lavinia is gone for the night, I try on some of the
dresses I’ve altered. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have turned out more girly, if
my mother had stuck around. By the time makeup and clothes started to
interest me, she was gone and we were even poorer than when my parents
were alive. A lot of what I owned before I could start making my own money
was whatever no longer fit Trace.
I fist the neckline in both hands, bringing it to my nose and smell the
fabric.
Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be up on that riser as just a
girl, excited for something special to happen to me, with my mom arguing
with me about what to do with my hair.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to not be me. To live a life
where every single step didn’t have to be so hard.
I tighten my fists around the dress, breathing hard and shallow as my gaze
grows hotter on the fabric. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be
Clay.
And before I can stop myself, I stretch my arms wide, hard and fast, the
ancient silk screaming as it tears in two.