08-13-2013, 06:01 AM
Claire had a good eye for fashion. A girl had to be if she was going to look like a million bucks when she only dropped twenty. She also had to have patience. Roaming from boutique to boutique, shoving through piles of crap clothes, dealing with pissy shop-keepers who couldn't get jobs anywhere near 5th Avenue, well it was quite the trial in determination. Then she was also hard to embarrass. After finding a vintage Alexander Wang blouse, or any haute couture, avant-garde piece sold second-hand mint-condition, a girl felt pretty smug walking out of the shop...until she bumps shoulders with a woman wearing the real (new) thing, coming in to donate last season's wardrobe ... to "the impoverished." Feeling like a charity case while yet drooling over the woman's Ter Et Bantine mustard block top tended to leave a bitter taste in her mouth.
Certainly Moscow had outranked New York and Paris as the fashion capital of the world years ago, and Claire yearned to step foot in the immaculate Gum department store, but not before she was ready to actually purchase something. Which meant she was stuck with digging through bargain-basements, sample sales, and resale shops in the meantime. It was going to take some impressive fortune-telling to land enough cash for a trip like that.
With such a critical eye, she spotted the gentleman with the cloak immediately. Claire herself was in a blousey, navy blue cowl neck top, the back of which was laser-cut with small, geometrical shapes which glimpsed the curve of her spine beneath clear down to her waist. That is, it was warm enough to walk the streets in such attire. Anyone wearing a cloak immediately drew her curiosity. Was this a new fashion she had not yet heard? Had anyone at Fashion Week debuted cloaks? She was uncertain to the point of nearly panicking, and her expression darkened thoughtfully.
She clearly monitored the man from his shoes to a timepiece and the sharpness of his haircut. Nothing else about him spoke to the kind of money representative of Moscow's leading trend-setters. Which led Claire to wonder if his choice in coverings was out of some lesser-known motivation such as being plain insane. Or maybe it was some historically accurate cultural representation? Did Russians ever wear cloaks? Claire tried to remember some of the old black and white videos of soldiers marching around Leningrad.
"Scusi signorina," he said before she could escape beyond his path. The words alone gave her pause even as she tried to dig through that thick accent. Then all seemed to lock into place. He was definitely not of russian heritage. Signorina? Was that Italian or Portuguese? She shook the question aside, glanced over her shoulder and kept walking to stay out of arm's reach of him. What does he want? she thought, immediately suspicious. They were in the red light district, after all. The profile of a woman rigged with straps and chains, howling at an image of a moon, wavered on a video-screen on the building beside Claire. If this had been New York, she would have kept on walking without a second glance.
She casually laid one hand into the voluminous pocket of her skirt, fingering a small talisman kept there, pondering which of the spells she knew would be best should it be necessary.... or just for curiosity.
"What?
She finally uttered impatiently.
Certainly Moscow had outranked New York and Paris as the fashion capital of the world years ago, and Claire yearned to step foot in the immaculate Gum department store, but not before she was ready to actually purchase something. Which meant she was stuck with digging through bargain-basements, sample sales, and resale shops in the meantime. It was going to take some impressive fortune-telling to land enough cash for a trip like that.
With such a critical eye, she spotted the gentleman with the cloak immediately. Claire herself was in a blousey, navy blue cowl neck top, the back of which was laser-cut with small, geometrical shapes which glimpsed the curve of her spine beneath clear down to her waist. That is, it was warm enough to walk the streets in such attire. Anyone wearing a cloak immediately drew her curiosity. Was this a new fashion she had not yet heard? Had anyone at Fashion Week debuted cloaks? She was uncertain to the point of nearly panicking, and her expression darkened thoughtfully.
She clearly monitored the man from his shoes to a timepiece and the sharpness of his haircut. Nothing else about him spoke to the kind of money representative of Moscow's leading trend-setters. Which led Claire to wonder if his choice in coverings was out of some lesser-known motivation such as being plain insane. Or maybe it was some historically accurate cultural representation? Did Russians ever wear cloaks? Claire tried to remember some of the old black and white videos of soldiers marching around Leningrad.
"Scusi signorina," he said before she could escape beyond his path. The words alone gave her pause even as she tried to dig through that thick accent. Then all seemed to lock into place. He was definitely not of russian heritage. Signorina? Was that Italian or Portuguese? She shook the question aside, glanced over her shoulder and kept walking to stay out of arm's reach of him. What does he want? she thought, immediately suspicious. They were in the red light district, after all. The profile of a woman rigged with straps and chains, howling at an image of a moon, wavered on a video-screen on the building beside Claire. If this had been New York, she would have kept on walking without a second glance.
She casually laid one hand into the voluminous pocket of her skirt, fingering a small talisman kept there, pondering which of the spells she knew would be best should it be necessary.... or just for curiosity.
"What?
She finally uttered impatiently.