City Limits: Portraits From The Edge

“Then the dressing room’s still full.”

She kept walking.

Arthur had lived above the Siren’s Song for four months. He knew which ceiling tiles leaked, which pipes knocked at dawn, and which stair creaked like a dying animal. He had never entered the club during business hours. From his apartment, the place was mostly bass and plumbing. Down here, it was a living machine with sequins caught in its gears.

He found Seraphina near the stage-side dressing area, sitting in front of a mirror framed by bulbs. Her crimson hair fell over one shoulder in a deliberate wave. She was wearing a silver robe, one ankle crossed over the other, and an expression that suggested the entire building had been assembled for her convenience and had recently failed inspection.

Her gaze met his in the mirror.

“You’re the upstairs librarian.”

“Would-be librarian,” Arthur said.

“That’s worse.”

He stopped at the edge of the dressing area. “Do you have a minute?”

“I have several. They’re all expensive.”

Arthur glanced at the empty chair beside her. A rhinestone-covered boot occupied it.

“Could I - ”

“No.”

He remained standing. “I wanted to show you something.”

“That usually costs extra too.”

The music from the stage thudded through the wall. A laugh rose from the club floor, bright and artificial, then broke apart beneath the bass.

Arthur set the portfolio on the counter between them. “I’m starting a local clothing line. Ink & Thread. I design the shirts myself, and I’m looking for models.”

Seraphina looked at the portfolio, then at him. “Models.”

“For promotional photos. Nothing explicit. Mostly posed portraits and the shirts.”

“Mostly?”

“I mean entirely.”

“Good recovery.”

He opened the portfolio. The first shirt was charcoal gray with a white silhouette of a man’s head, the hair arranged like a storm cloud. Beneath it, in clean block letters, read: I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR DICKENS.

Seraphina leaned closer.

Arthur hurried to explain. “It’s a literary pun. Dickens wrote about - ”

“I know who Dickens is.”

“Right.”

She lifted the shirt by two fingers. The fabric was soft, heavier than the bargain shirts sold at the mall. Arthur had spent an entire night adjusting the ink density so the lettering wouldn’t crack after three washes.

Seraphina turned it over. The Ink & Thread mark sat between the shoulder blades, small and black.

“This one’s funny,” she said.

Arthur felt a spark of hope. “I have other designs. There’s a Virginia Woolf silhouette with the line, ‘A Room of One’s Own, Preferably With Better Lighting.’ And a Kafka design that says, ‘Metamorphosis: Now in Cotton.’”

She looked at him.

“The Kafka one sells well online.”

“Does it?”

“Moderately.”

“That means no.”

“It means the audience is selective.”

Seraphina held the Dickens shirt against herself. The silver robe slipped slightly from her shoulder. Arthur fixed his eyes on the portfolio.

“How much?” she asked.

“For the shirt?”

“For me.”

He blinked. “The modeling fee is seventy-five dollars for the session, plus a shirt.”

Her mouth curved. “You’re paying me seventy-five dollars to stand around looking like this?”

“I’m paying for your time, your likeness, and your professional participation.”

“Sounds very official.”

“That’s the idea.”

“It sounds like you’re afraid of the other words.”

Arthur felt heat climb his neck. “What other words?”

Seraphina placed the shirt on the counter. “The words people use when they want something from me.”

“I’m not trying to want something from you.”

“That’s not how wanting works.”

A stagehand pushed past the curtain behind them, carrying a coil of cable. He gave Seraphina a quick nod and Arthur a suspicious look, as if Arthur had wandered in from a less profitable species of life.

Arthur closed the portfolio halfway. “Look, I’m not here to make things uncomfortable. I’m trying to build a business. I need someone who can make the designs look sharp, and you have a strong presence.”

“Strong presence.”

“You’re memorable.”

“Better.”

“You also understand the aesthetic.”

Seraphina laughed once. “The aesthetic is a black t-shirt with a dead author on it.”

“An obscure author.”

“That’s your pitch?”

“It’s the first shirt.”

She looked again at the design. The bulbs around the mirror flashed across her eyes, turning them pale and then dark.

“Why me?”

Arthur had prepared an answer. He had written it on the back of a receipt and practiced it while brushing his teeth.

“Because you’re confident,” he said. “You know how to hold attention. And because the club’s close to my apartment, which makes scheduling easier.”

The second reason landed badly.

Seraphina lowered the shirt. “So I’m convenient.”

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

“It sounded exactly like what you meant.”

“I meant local. Local is good for a local brand.”

“Does the shirt say local?”

“No.”

“Then maybe don’t sell me like a bus route.”

Arthur reached for the price sheet, but his fingers caught the corner of the portfolio. The shirts slid loose and spilled across the counter. One landed in a bowl of loose hairpins. Another dropped onto the floor beneath the makeup table.

Seraphina watched him crouch.

“Careful,” she said. “Those are valuable.”

“The shirts?”

“The hairpins.”

He retrieved the shirt, brushed it off, and stood. “I can offer a hundred for the first shoot.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“That’s more than I budgeted,” he said. “But I can manage it.”

“Now you’re motivated.”

“I was motivated before.”

“You were sweating before.”

Arthur looked toward the hallway. “It’s warm in here.”

“It’s always warm in here.”

“I’m aware.”

Seraphina stood. She was taller than he’d realized, or perhaps the dressing room had made her seem smaller. The silver robe shone under the bulbs. She took the shirt from his hands and slipped it over her head.

The charcoal cotton settled against her, hiding the robe beneath it. The white Dickens silhouette stretched across her chest. The design looked different on her - not merely printed, but inhabited. Arthur hated that the thought arrived so quickly and that he had no decent place to put it.

Seraphina faced the mirror.

“Well?”

Arthur forced his eyes to the lettering. “It fits.”

“That’s your professional opinion?”

“It’s a medium.”

“Arthur.”

He looked at her reflection.

“It looks good,” he said.

“Better.”

The music outside changed. The beat softened, then surged. Someone shouted near the bar. Seraphina adjusted the hem of the shirt and watched him in the mirror.

“You want me to model,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You want pictures for your website.”

“And craft fairs. Social media. Promotional material.”

“You want my face attached to your little literary rebellion.”

“It’s not little.”

“No?”

“I’ve sold forty-three shirts this month.”

“Forty-three.” She let the number hang between them. “That’s almost a business.”

Arthur felt his hope thin but refused to let it collapse. “I can pay you for a full session next week. Two hours. You choose the poses you’re comfortable with. I’ll send you the images before using them.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

“And if I don’t like them?”

“We won’t use them.”

Seraphina studied him. Her expression had lost its teasing edge. For a second, she looked tired beneath the makeup, as if the mirror had caught a version of her that the stage lights were trained to avoid.

Then the edge returned.

“I’ll do it.”

Arthur exhaled. “Great.”

“But I have conditions.”

“Of course.”

“You don’t talk to me like I’m an invoice.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. You hide behind words like likeness and participation.”

“They’re accurate words.”

“They’re cold words.”

Arthur gathered the remaining shirts into the portfolio. “I can be warmer.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He paused.

Seraphina stepped closer. The scent of powder and expensive perfume followed her, sharp enough to sting his nose. She tapped the Dickens silhouette with one red fingernail.

“If I’m going to put your shirt on my body, you treat me like I’m more than a client.”

Arthur’s hands tightened around the portfolio.

“I’ll treat you respectfully,” he said.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s what I can promise.”

Her gaze narrowed. “You really do live upstairs, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“With my dog.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sherlock Bones.”

For the first time, Seraphina smiled without calculation. “That’s terrible.”

“He’s a basset hound. It suits him.”

“Does Sherlock Bones know you’re down here trying to sell me cotton?”

“He would object to the pricing.”

“Smart dog.”

Arthur nodded, relieved by the change in subject. “So we have an agreement?”

“We have an agreement for the shoot.”

“And the condition?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”

Seraphina leaned toward him, close enough that he could see the tiny silver flecks painted at the corners of her eyes.

“I’m asking you not to act like I disappear when the camera turns off.”

Arthur swallowed. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You already do.”

“I’ve spoken to you twice.”

“Exactly.”

A woman called Seraphina’s name from the stage entrance. The dressing-room door swung open, spilling blue light across the floor.

Seraphina turned toward it, then back to Arthur. “Next Thursday. Eleven in the morning. Bring the whole line.”

“I’ll bring the shirts.”

“And coffee.”

“I can bring coffee.”

“Good. Two sugars.”

He wrote it on the price sheet before he could stop himself.

Seraphina glanced down. “You’re taking notes?”

“I don’t want to forget.”

“You’re very serious for a man selling a shirt that insults Dickens.”

“I take my work seriously.”

“That’s what worries me.”

She pulled the charcoal shirt straight across her waist. “And Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“If you’re going to photograph me, don’t make me look like something you found on the way to the library.”

The words struck deeper than they should have. He looked at her in the mirror, at the crimson hair and practiced posture, at the tiredness she kept tucked behind her eyes.

“I won’t,” he said.

Seraphina held his gaze.

“Then don’t treat me like a client,” she said again. “Treat me like a woman you chose.”

Arthur opened his mouth. Nothing useful came out.

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it now.

“See you Thursday.”

Arthur stepped backward into the hallway, clutching his portfolio against his chest. The club’s bass swallowed him at once. Behind him, Seraphina returned to the mirror, wearing his shirt as if she had already claimed it.

He had secured his first model.

He had also agreed to something he didn’t understand, and Seraphina had made it clear that misunderstanding would be his problem, not hers.

End of chapter one. 7 more chapters in the full book.