I dressed the mannequins from the shins up, sure their struggle, wobbling from the pit of each hand, would tree-topple. But they kept upright, and I passed the knees simply like they weren’t there, and the waist was a wrong measurement which I cured with a belt. Not a placebo, nor a fix either, just a quick fix. And the exert was more than a usual Wednesday so I sat on the shop window floor watching shoppers pass, deciphering what I was wearing and whether they could buy it inside and how much I was hourly, in a different context, one you can’t imagine, really. Everything I wear is stock, uniform, bobbling.
The shirt was a difficult pick and I tried four, five, before the fit was a stiff contour-follower, until the button-doing was a tingle I wouldn’t admit to. And accessories were an easy after and the second mannequin watched as the first one finished, and it knew, I think, that second is better, as you know more second time round.
I imagined hair shapes and colour, and stared at empty space eyes and wondered how workable a mannequin’s mouth is. I don’t mind surface. I can handle dry. But that’s another night, when staff stay late but patrons don’t. For now I’m stuck with staff, talking about prison dads and bathroom fucks and failed careers everywhere else they went. The CVs don’t surprise me, and the stories either made up or simple: an affair, an over, and girlfriends who aren’t ones but whose family ties make the whole thing worth it, sort of, for another 3 years or 4.