Remy West

The clock on the mantel has given up pretending this is a normal appointment. Sets down his shears, straightens, and looks at you in the long mirror rather than directly.

The shoulder is better.

Picks up his chalk and marks a single line at the waist, then steps back to consider it. The gala is tomorrow at seven. The dress is almost right.

Tell me if the seam pulls when you turn.

A beat.

And tell me what you actually think of it. Not what you'd say to a different tailor.