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“Hey, Tori.”

“Morning, Tori.”

The members of my staff offered endless salutations as I floated the halls of the building. They were often met with a curt nod. If I acknowledged everyone, I’d be depleted before I reached my desk.

Armed with a cup of the finest coffee blend from I Hate Mondays and my portfolio in hand, I journeyed to my destination, ignoring several greetings until Marquis approached.

With a fierce strut that could put America’s Next Top Model to shame, he closed the space between us. Legs widely parted, hand attached to his hip in a stance, he tossed invisible hair and smirked.

“Ma’am, ma’am, ma’am? The NY fitted, the hoop earrings, the days-old twist out, the blazer, the bell bottom destroyed knee jeans, the Louis backpack… Can we all feast? Did you have to devour us like this on a Tuesday?”

Baring a hand to the chest, his lips parted as he glanced around the space exaggeratedly. The exorbitant energy was a welcome exchange. My coffee was no longer needed for now.

“Thank you, Marquis. Good morning to you, too.”

Absent of deep thought, the outfit of my choosing was thrown together on a whim caused by an excess of snoozes to my alarm. Laid back was the assignment, but according to Marquis, I still made a statement. At thirty years young in an ageist society, the complement dilated my ego.

Arriving in my office, I spoke to my assistant, Cora, and opened my emails to begin my day. It would be a long one, full of meetings, alterations, and rehearsals. I went through the motions, approving this alteration or that model swap. My team and I also rehearsed the show twice, further diminishing my energy.

By noon, I needed a nap. The prospect of such a treat wouldn’t be allowed, given my busy schedule. Despite my weary bones, I loved every minute of the chaos. My mother always called me a busy bee, bestowing the nickname Bee. I always had to engage in some form of productivity, but today, I’d overdone it. My gaze loitered on the pull-out couch in my office corner wistfully. One could only dream.

My hands skimmed over several sketches laid out on the desk, finally landing on the newest editions of Vogue and MLNIN (PRON Melanin). MLNIN was a local Black-centric fashion publication that amassed national reach. Deciding to skim through their issue first, I opened to the first page.

As I flipped through the latest issue, chaos ensued around me. What should have been a typical day in the showroom was everything but. At a mere four days prior to my winter couture show, there were several tasks to achieve. The brief mental reprieve came to an end as swiftly as it manifested.

My office was mostly white, accented with grays. Like a blank canvas, the neutral tones worked well in such an instance. Today, the colors of fabrics, drawings, and garments peppered the space since my team and I were actively working on a line. Excitement, anxiety, and rush filled the energetic air. Fittings, castings, and adjustments would be made up until the evening before the show.

Collection boards lined the wall behind me, showcasing my vision and my team’s designs in an array of drawings. High fashion, covered girl was the assignment. The chic styles lauded modesty in a world where women frequently exposed themselves. To assume such a stance, going against the status quo, was rare and daring, but I’d carved out an emblem of success for myself.

Demure was a growing fashion brand and trailblazer in the industry. The brand appealed to both women who preferred being covered and those who dared to show a bit of skin. As far as my personal preferences went, I landed somewhere in between.

From my youth, I’d always been an artist, employing my right brain to create. I was a quiet girl, fascinated with the world and the impression it rested upon me. As such, I felt charged with the responsibility of sharing that impression with my peers. Eventually, I found my voice through my passion. Wild and sincerely, I dispensed my art in the form of exclusive fashion. I was convinced that the world needed it. Demure’s skyrocketing sales convinced me that there was a subset of people who demanded it.

As a child, I’d been, liberal with my tongue and even more gracious with my hands. I never steered from my desires and I always stayed busy. A restless soul, no rain nor scorching dessert could keep me still for long. The hunt for creative expression taunted me until I located my niche.

I would beg my parents for paper to color or draw on. My drawings always featured a girl dressed in magnificent garments that covered her from the neck or chest down. Religion did not motivate my stance. I simply enjoyed the look of a woman fully covered in elaborate garb. The body, to me, was a playground for intricate art and textiles.

Stretching my restless limbs, I rose, tucking the MLNIN magazine under my arm. Exiting my office, I treaded my feet toward the atelier. Here, my seamstresses could be seen creating the various designs I’d envisioned for Demure. All the magic occurred in this room, making it one of my favorite places to be. From here, one could witness the fine details of each design slowly coming to life. From the handstitched beadwork to sequins and feathers, the visions of my two-dimensional designs were manifested into the three-dimensional.

At the top of the room, I stood in silent awe of my team. The space was mostly hushed, save for the occasional whisper of an adjustment that needed to be made. As everyone diligently worked, the soft notes of a jazz quartet played in the background.

Satisfied with what I saw, I directed my limbs back to my office. Hardly a minute passed before I was being summoned on my phone by the man who brought a smile to my face. Javier Reed was my current flavor of the last few months, and he was absolutely insatiable.

If ‘threaten me with a good time’ were a person, it would have been Javier. We’d been out on several dates, and it was all face-splitting, big-grinning fun. He knew how to enjoy himself.

“What’s going on, baby?” Into the phone, he flourished suaveness.

“Javi, how are you?” Settling in my seat, I twirled my natural curls and grinned.

“Missing you. I can’t wait to see you and see your eyes light up on Komodo Island.”

My expression faltered, swiftly replaced by gratitude that we weren’t on a video call. Javier had been adamant about getting me on a plane to visit Indonesia with him. He swore the pink beach on Komodo Island would inspire my next show. Fashion shows were typically launched two seasons ahead of the anticipated collection. With my winter show approaching, it was time to begin thinking of what was next for the following spring.

Succeeding to create for that next show had been fruitless. Sketch after sketch, I discarded crumpled sheets of paper into a trash bin. My potential spring collection was in default of something inspiring, something beguiling, and something breathtaking. Frustration coupled with exasperation had prevented me from attempting further. Javier made a hard selling point.

“We’ll see, Javi.”

“The only thing to see is that beautiful pink beach with you on it, mi amor.”