Alterations
"He needs a suit for his brother's wedding. She runs a small shop, works alone, takes her time. The measuring tape lingers. The fitting room is small. By the third appointment, neither of them is thinking about the suit."
The bell above the door chimes when I walk in.
The shop is small—narrow, crammed with fabric bolts and dress forms and the heavy industrial sewing machine that dominates the back corner. It smells like starch and old wood and something faintly floral. Dust motes float in the light from the front window.
"One moment."
Her voice comes from behind a curtain. Accented—Eastern European, I think. Russian, maybe. I wait, hands in my pockets, looking at the photos on the wall. Wedding dresses. Suits. A tuxedo that looks like it belongs in a museum.
The curtain parts.
She's not what I expected.
Small. Maybe five-two, if she's stretching. But her body is anything but small—curves packed into a compact frame, hips that sway when she walks, breasts that strain against her blouse. She's wearing a measuring tape around her neck like a scarf, pins stuck in her cuff, reading glasses perched on her nose.
"You are the one needing suit for wedding, yes?" She looks me up and down. Appraising. "Brother's wedding, you said on phone."
"That's right."
"When is wedding?"
"Three weeks."
She makes a sound—disapproval or amusement, I can't tell. "Three weeks is not much time. Most tailors would turn you away."
"But you won't?"
Her lips curve. Just slightly. "I like challenge."
Her name is Irina.
She tells me this while measuring my shoulders, her fingers brushing the back of my neck. Her touch is professional—efficient, impersonal—but I feel it everywhere.
"Arms out," she says.
I hold my arms out. She measures across my chest, around my waist. The tape is cold. Her fingers are warm.
"You have good proportions." She notes something on a pad. "Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. You work out, yes?"
"A little."
"Hmm." She circles around me. The tape measure snakes around my hips. "Turn."
I turn. She measures my back, my arms, the distance from my shoulder to my wrist. She's thorough. Meticulous. She touches me more in five minutes than some women have in entire relationships.
"Now." She crouches down. "Inseam."
I freeze.
"Stand straight," she says. "Feet apart."
I stand straight. Feet apart. She reaches up, and the measuring tape slides along my inner thigh—up, up, all the way to the crease where my leg meets my body. Her knuckle brushes against me.
I know she feels it. The way I'm getting hard. It's impossible to hide.
She doesn't react. Doesn't acknowledge it. Just notes the measurement and stands.
"Come back in one week," she says. "First fitting."
I think about her for seven days.
About her hands. About the way she'd crouched at my feet, looking up at me through her reading glasses. About the brush of her knuckle and the look on her face—professional, neutral, but with something underneath. Something knowing.
When I walk back into the shop, my pulse is already racing.
"On time." She emerges from the back, carrying a garment bag. "Good. I appreciate punctuality."
She hangs the bag on a hook. Unzips it. Inside is a suit—dark gray, single-breasted, exactly what I'd described.
"Put it on."
She gestures toward the fitting room. A small alcove, barely bigger than a closet, separated from the shop by a heavy curtain. I take the suit. Step inside.
There's a mirror on the wall. I watch myself change—shirt off, pants off, standing in my underwear in a stranger's shop. Then the suit goes on. Jacket first, then trousers. They fit better than anything I've ever worn.
"Come out," she calls. "Let me see."
I step out.
She's standing by the three-way mirror, pins between her lips, measuring tape in hand. Her eyes sweep over me—professional, assessing—and she nods.
"Good bones. But adjustments needed." She gestures. "Stand here."
I stand on the small platform in front of the mirrors. She circles me again. I watch her reflection—the curve of her hips, the sway of her breasts beneath her blouse. She's wearing a skirt today, knee-length, hugging her ass in a way that makes my mouth dry.
"Jacket is too loose here." She pinches the fabric at my waist. Her fingers brush my stomach. "And here." She reaches up, adjusts the shoulder. Her breast presses against my arm.
She doesn't apologize. Doesn't acknowledge it.
"Turn."
I turn. She crouches behind me, adjusting the hem of the jacket. Her breath is warm on my lower back.
"Trousers need work." She stands. Moves to my front. Crouches again. "Too much room in seat. Not enough in—" She pauses. "Front."
I look down. She's looking up at me, her face level with my crotch. The trousers are tented. Obviously, obscenely.
"Sorry," I manage. "I can't—"
"Is natural." Her voice is calm. "Bodies react. I've seen many." She slides her hand up my inner thigh, adjusting the fabric. Her knuckle brushes against my erection—deliberate this time, I'm sure of it—and she makes a small sound. "But this..." She looks up at me. "This is not just natural, is it?"
"No."
"You think about me."
It's not a question. I answer anyway.
"Yes."
She stands.
We're close now—her petite frame against my taller one, her breasts almost touching my chest. She smells like starch and something sweet. Her eyes are gray, pale as winter.
"Three weeks," she says. "Three weeks until wedding."
"I know."
"We have two more fittings." Her hand is still on my thigh. Not moving. Just... there. "I am professional. I do not—" She pauses. Searches for words. "Mix business with pleasure."
"I understand."
"But." Her hand slides higher. Cups me through the trousers. "If you were to come back after wedding. When suit is finished. When you are no longer client..."
"Yes?"
Her fingers squeeze. Gently. "Then we would have different conversation."
She releases me. Steps back. Her expression is neutral again, professional, like nothing happened.
"Come back next week," she says. "Second fitting."
The second fitting is torture.
She makes adjustments. Touches me everywhere—shoulders, waist, chest, thighs. The suit is nearly perfect now, but she finds reasons to linger. To brush. To let her body press against mine.
She doesn't acknowledge what happened. Doesn't mention the conversation, the touch, the promise. But every time her fingers graze my skin, I see it in her eyes—the same hunger I'm feeling.
"Almost there," she says, stepping back. "One more fitting. Then suit is ready."
"And then?"
"And then." She meets my eyes. "You pay. You leave. You go to wedding."
"And after the wedding?"
She smiles. Slow. Knowing.
"After wedding, you come back."
The wedding is beautiful.
My brother cries when he sees his bride. The ceremony is perfect. Everyone compliments my suit—where did you get it, who's your tailor, you look incredible.
I smile. I nod. I don't tell them about Irina.
About the way she touched me. About the way I've spent three weeks thinking about nothing else. About the way I left the reception early, drove across town, and am now standing outside her shop at 9 PM on a Saturday.
The sign says CLOSED.
I knock anyway.
Footsteps. The curtain behind the door moves. Then the lock clicks, and the door opens.
Irina is not wearing her work clothes.
She's wearing a dress—black, simple, hugging every curve. Her hair is down, falling past her shoulders. Her lips are red.
"You're early," she says. "Reception must not have been very good."
"It was fine."
"But you left."
"I left."
She steps back. Opens the door wider.
"Come in."
The shop looks different in the low light.
She hasn't turned on the main lights—just a lamp in the corner, casting warm shadows across the fabric and the mirrors. The fitting room curtain is pulled aside. The platform where I stood is empty.
"The suit looked good," she says. She's walking toward the back, toward the platform. "I saw photos. Your brother's wife posted them."
"You follow my brother's wife on social media?"
"I follow everyone who owes me money." She turns. "You paid, though. Before the wedding. I appreciate that."
"I wanted to make sure we were clear."
"Clear?"
"That I'm not a client anymore."
She smiles. "No. You're not."
She steps onto the platform.
I follow. We're standing in front of the three-way mirror now, her back to the glass, my front facing her. I can see myself reflected three times—and her, small and curved and looking up at me with those winter-pale eyes.
"You know why I made you wait," she says.
"Tell me."
"Because I wanted you to want it." She reaches up. Touches my chest. "Not just the physical. The anticipation. The wondering. The not-knowing." Her hand slides down. "By the time you came back, I wanted you desperate."
"I am."
"Show me."
I kiss her.
She's so small—I have to bend down, she has to stretch up, and even then I'm curving around her. But she kisses like she sews—precise, deliberate, taking her time. Her tongue slides against mine, and I taste wine.
"You've been drinking," I murmur.
"One glass. For courage." She pulls back. "I don't do this. Bring clients back after hours. Let them—" She takes a breath. "I am very controlled person. Very disciplined."
"I know."
"But you." Her hands find my belt. "You I cannot control." The buckle opens. "You I cannot stop thinking about." My zipper slides down. "Three weeks of touching you and pretending it was nothing. Of feeling you hard against my hand and walking away."
"Why did you?"
"Because." She looks up at me. Her hand is inside my pants now, wrapping around me. "Because it's better this way. The waiting. The wanting." She strokes, slow. "Tell me I was right."
"You were right."
"Tell me you want me."
"I want you." My hands find the hem of her dress. "God, Irina, I want you."
"Then take me."
I lift her dress.
She's wearing nothing underneath.
I freeze. She laughs—low, wicked, pleased with herself.
"Did you think I invited you here just to talk?"
I grab her waist. Lift her. She's light—so light—and she wraps her legs around me like she was made for this. Her ass fills my hands, round and soft and perfect.
"The platform," she breathes. "Put me on the platform."
I set her down on the edge of it. She's at the perfect height now—her hips level with mine, her legs spread, her dress bunched around her waist.
"I've been thinking about this," she says. Her hands push at my pants. "Every fitting. Every time I had to touch you and pretend it was just business." My pants fall. "Every time I felt you against my hand and had to walk away."
"You don't have to walk away now."
"No." She pulls me forward. I feel her heat, her wetness, the slick press of her against my tip. "Now I get to stay."
I push inside.
She gasps—a sharp, surprised sound—and her nails dig into my shoulders. She's tight, impossibly tight, and I have to go slow, inch by inch, giving her time to adjust.
"Da," she breathes. Russian, I think. Or something like it. "Da, da, da—"
I bottom out. She's shaking. I'm shaking. I look at the mirror behind her—at the three of us reflected there, at her small body wrapped around mine, at the look on her face.
"Move," she says. "Please move."
I move.
The mirrors show everything.
Every thrust. Every gasp. Every time her breasts bounce beneath her dress, every time her ass clenches in my hands. I watch us in the reflection—watch myself fucking her on the platform where I stood for three fittings, trying not to get hard.
"Yes," she moans. "Yes—harder—"
I give her harder. She's so small, so light—I can move her however I want, angle her however feels best. I pull her closer, change the angle, and she cries out.
"There—right there—don't stop—"
I don't stop.
She comes with a sound that echoes off the mirrors. Her body clamps down on mine, squeezing, pulsing, and I watch it happen in triplicate—watch her face, her body, her reflection, all of it mine.
"Inside me," she gasps. "Come inside me—"
I let go.
Afterward, we're tangled on the floor.
The platform was too small, too hard. We ended up on the carpet, between the dress forms, her body draped across mine. She's still in her dress, bunched and ruined. I'm still in my shirt, wrinkled beyond repair.
"So," she says. Her accent is thicker now, softer. "Was suit worth the wait?"
I laugh. "The suit was perfect."
"And this?"
"Also perfect."
She props herself up on one elbow. Looks down at me with those gray eyes.
"I have more work. Commissions. Very busy next few months."
"Okay?"
"You could..." She hesitates. "Visit. While I work. Keep me company."
"You mean, come back."
"I mean, keep coming back." She traces a finger down my chest. "Same time. Every week. Until..." She shrugs. "Until we see."
"Until we see what?"
She smiles. Leans down. Kisses me.
"Until we see what fits," she says. "What needs alteration. What works."
I pull her back down to me.
"I'll be here," I say. "Every week."
"I know." She settles against my chest. "You are very punctual."
And for the first time in three weeks, I stop thinking about the wedding.
I'm thinking about next week instead.