Chapter 57: The Swift Work of Charles Dickson Pt.3

"Uh Charles are you okay?" I tap his shoulder lightly and he shivers a bit, which startles me, "Oh sorry." "No no just got a bit overstimulated, I've been doing a lot lately and what you said really means the world. Thank you again."

He gives me a wink going back to working on the garment and my face lights up in a way I can't exactly control. My chest beats fast and I feel wings in my stomach. I made someone happy, someone feel appreciated.. Woah it's such a good feeling is this what it feels like to make someone feel good about themself? To feel loved?

I want to express that feeling more to Charles and I hope even to myself one day. I want to love myself in the way Charles does with his work. He is so passionate, so joyful even in tired times and I want to feel that. I like being around that joy.

He has a big smile on his face, as he pins the sides of the sleeves to the top of the outfit. The blood color is rich and the determination in Charles is bold, "D'accord, maintenant, faisons un peu de couture(Okay now let's do some sewing)!" "Sewing?" I repeat and he turns with a sharp nod, "Yes! I have multiple ways of doing so in my sewing work and sometimes I sew on the mannequin or on the desk!"

He licks the thread and slips it through the needle, tying the end into a knot. "So going back to my parents they basically made clothing as a freedom of expression. An outlet for their stress or happiness. It would help them get out their creativity in many ways. Plus, they would always added a bit of home into their work. Whether it was a certain food from their hometown or a word they would say on the daily. Just a little something that made them feel represented.."

I sit on his round stool plopping my hand on my chin, continuing to listen to Charles as he sews the sleeves together. Adding more thread when needed, he glows when talking to me and it's beautiful. "I do the same thing too in my own way, it might not be as direct as my parents at times..But, there is always a piece of my home represented in my clothing and it makes me honored to represent it through you."

His face lights up again and he stares at me, with this look I can't describe but it reminds me of longing in a way. He doesn't look away from me and I don't look away from him, and so he stoops working on the garment. He gulps and seems to be waiting for something, maybe for me to speak? I'm not sure but the gaze doesn't break..Atleast not until a ding rings from his desk.

It breaks his contact and when he goes to it, it's that pendant, the pendant that all the workers have. That watchful eye that I know my mom hears through, that she watches through. Did she hear our conversation? Did she hear what I had said?