Friday, April 19, 2013

Jama and Marco

Basically, I couldn't tell you where the fashion house was exactly. At least, they were familiar with my teacher and her work. She'd actually worked there some time ago, as more or less, as an apprentice. Of course, I was pretty much on the bottom of the food change.

As it was, my job to rip stitches out.

According to this old Chinese woman that I worked with, this was how you learned to make patterns work. Forget coming up with designs, this was where the work process began. And her first priority was for me to learn how to make pants fit.

Naturally, it was weird finding my on little spot at work. It wasn't much fun at the hostel I was staying. After all, if I'm going to stay  I need a permanent place. Which didn't happen over night.

I was truly an outsider. The looks the other girls would give me. Laughter mostly. It was if they knew a secret I didn't know. Evidently, I wouldn't last a week, but as the days wore on, Miss L assured me, I was sticking around.

I guess I was pretty good with a seam ripper, after all. Oh, and there was that obligation of making sure I make a spot of tea at three in the afternoon.

These were the two things I did. Actually, it was rather soothing, taking out stitches. After all, it kept my mind off Jules, wondering what he was up too.

I didn't want to think about him. If only there was someone else, but I didn't dare want to go down that road again. Honestly, I need to be on my own. Yet, this seemed to be the only place I felt safe.

At the moment, the hostel was home, which wasn't much. I might as well have been staying at a shelter. I had to keep all my stuff in a backpack. And I might get a different bed, every night.

No, Paris was definitely not that romantic at the moment. I hadn't exactly made friends. I didn't speak the language. I didn't want to say it, but I thought they were all snobs. Except for Miss L. But we never talked. She would tell me what she wanted and I'd do my best to do it.

I guess it could have been worse. It wasn't a sweat shop, by any means, yet a part of me felt as if I were in prison. But that was where I wanted to be.

By the third day, I'd finally managed my way down to breakroom for some coffee and toast. It was there I saw him for the first time.

In spite of that arrogant pinched face of his, he was fit. A tad shaggy. Although, he was wearing those black rimmed glasses as if this was suppose to make him, possibly intelligent.  He didn't dress like Clark Kent. No, I bet he was a slacker in his over sized Hawaiian shirt he wore, over a slim tank.

It was like I was waiting for him to get up in those black jeans of his and walk away. Preferable with out that open shirt.

Of course, he didn't say to me. "Hi, I'm Marco." No, it never worked that way with him. I had to ask around, wondering if he were important or not. He wasn't. Just an intern.

He was brooding at at table, alone. Sketching. Of course, when I cleared my throat, he looked me over, as if he expected me to say something. I didn't. Neither did he. He didn't show me his work, either.

Actually, he looked kind of mad, but he was drinking expresso. As I fixed my coffee, making it my main meal of the day, I caught him looking. He caught me staring, too.

"What?" I finally asked.

"Nothing." His voice was low, he said something in French which I didn't catch. I took some fruit and was on my way.

But when he looked at me, I was certain he thought I didn't belong here in these clothes. After all, I was in a thrifted cardigan over a plain white Tee and black leggins. Possibly, not the best dressed at a fashion house. But I was sporting my trusty black buckled boots.

 Honestly, I didn't give a damn what Marco thought of me.