By R. J. Kinnarney
Three yards of fabric, cut on the bias. And not just any fabric. Shot silk, which glowed brighter than any emerald on Bond Street – beautiful, slippery and fearsomely expensive. Nothing but the best for my princess. Nothing but stress for me.
I told her it was nigh on impossible to gather that amount of material and attach it to such a tiny bodice.
‘Nigh on?’ Her green eyes twinkled. ‘Nigh on? So, there’s a chance, right?’
She thought I was some kind of material miracle-worker, a prestidigator of poplin, a satin sorcerer. Her faith was touching. Terrifying.
I’d like to say that I worked on the frock for weeks but I didn’t. This was a one moment, do-or-die frock. No second chances. No false starts.
She stands before me now, a verdant goddess, the wordless love more voluminous than any skirt.
R. J. Kinnarney is trying to make sense of their tiny corner of the world, through tiny pieces of writing and lots of reading. Currently working on a novel, which looks at attitudes to war, communication, prejudice and what strength means. Words lie out there in all sorts of places and links can be found at rjkinnarney.com