The Cedar-Riverside Seamstress

Halima's shop is hidden on the third floor of a Cedar-Riverside walk-up.

No sign on the door. Word of mouth only. Every Somali bride in Minnesota knows her name—the seamstress who can transform any dress into perfection.

I come for a suit.

"My cousin's wedding. I need something fitted."

She looks up from her sewing machine.

Fifty-six years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds packed into a purple dress. Her ebony skin gleams under the workshop lights. Her fingers are calloused from decades of needles and fabric.

"Soo gal." Come in. "Let me see what we're working with."

She circles me slowly.

Eyes measuring without measuring tape. Hands occasionally touching—my shoulders, my arms, my back.

"Good frame," she says. "But the suit you're wearing is garbage. Off the rack?"

"Yes."

"Ilaahay." She clicks her tongue. "Men. You spend money on cars, on phones, but never on clothes that actually fit."

"That's why I'm here."

"Good. Strip."

"What?"

"Strip. To your underwear. I need to see your body to dress it properly."

I strip.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Studies me with professional detachment.

"Turn."

I turn.

"Good shoulders. Narrow waist. Long legs." She writes notes in a small book. "Your cousin is lucky. You'll be the best-dressed guest at her wedding."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's a fact." She puts down her pen. "Come back in a week. I'll have something ready."

"Mahadsnid."

"Don't thank me yet. Good clothes aren't cheap."

I come back in a week.

The suit is stunning—navy blue, perfectly cut, fabric that feels like water.

"Try it on."

I change behind her screen. Step out.

She studies me. Adjusts the shoulders. Tugs at the hem.

"Almost perfect." Her hands work quickly, pinning and marking. "One more fitting. Come tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow. Evening. After I close." She meets my eyes. "Some alterations require... privacy."

I arrive at seven.

The shop is empty. Halima waits with the suit—even more perfect now—and something else in her eyes.

"Try it on."

I change. She watches this time. Doesn't hide behind professional detachment.

"Perfect," she breathes. "You look perfect."

"Thanks to you."

"Thanks to your body." She steps closer. "Twenty-three years I've been dressing men. None of them have looked like you."

"Halima—"

"My husband died when I was thirty-three. Cancer." She touches my lapel. "Twenty-three years I've been alone. Twenty-three years of dressing other people for happiness."

"You deserve happiness too."

"I'm starting to think so." She looks up at me. "Take off the suit. Carefully. I don't want to ruin my work."

I remove the suit.

Hang it carefully. Stand before her in just my underwear.

She removes her dress.

Her body is extraordinary.

Ebony curves that flow like the fabric she works with. Massive breasts with dark nipples. Soft belly. Wide hips. The body of a woman who knows how to create beauty.

"Twenty-three years," she whispers. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

"Then take me. Like I've been dreaming of being taken."

I worship the seamstress.

My hands learn her body like she learned mine—every curve, every fold. She gasps as I cup her breasts, as my thumbs trace her nipples.

"Bed—" She points to a daybed in the corner. "There—"

I lay her down on fabric samples and silk scraps.

I kiss down her body.

Past her breasts. Across her soft belly. She spreads her thick thighs without shame.

"No one has—" She gasps as my mouth finds her. "Not since—ILAAHAY!"

I lick her slowly. Deeply. She tastes like the thread she bites when sewing—clean and sharp and something else.

"Coming—" Her hands grip my head. "Twenty-three years—ALLA—"

She floods my mouth.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill me—"

I position myself.

"Ready?"

"I've been ready for two decades."

I push inside.

She screams.

Her walls grip me like she grips fabric—tight, precise, controlling.

"So big—" She wraps her legs around me. "Dhakhso—"

I pound the seamstress.

Among her fabrics and her needles and her decades of lonely work. Her massive body bounces beneath me. She comes twice before I'm close.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Finish inside me—"

I explode.

We lie tangled among silk and satin.

"The wedding is in two days," she murmurs. "You'll be the most handsome guest."

"Thanks to you."

"Thanks to us." She traces patterns on my chest. "Come back after. I have more alterations in mind."

"What kind?"

"The kind that take all night." She kisses me. "Macaan."

The Wedding

Everyone compliments my suit.

My cousin asks where I got it.

"A seamstress in Cedar-Riverside. Best hands in the business."

She has no idea how right I am.

After the reception, I drive to Halima's shop.

She's waiting with new fabric.

"For your next suit," she says. "But first—"

She undresses.

The best alterations happen after hours.