Cinna had started a new sketchbook for his latest client. Black cardstock cover, titled and dated with a white permanent marker. Electra Lamb Alexandria. 8/1/73. It was already about a quarter way full—there weren’t too many pages in the book, and he usually worked like this—pages and pages before he even met the client, and revisions and revisions after.Among the sketches were early ideas, and later ones that had turned into the dresses he actually had ready.
There was the iridescent silk dress, with a transparent, sparkled outer layer, the under layer itself showing a thousand colors with the slightest movement, glowing softly in dim or non-existent light. And there was the sweetheart-neckline dress that rippled to the floor in shades of blue, the dress itself actually a screen that showed the colors shifting like ocean waves. There was the white, off the shoulder dress, with the long sleeves of intricate handmade lace, the feathered skirt. And there were more, of course.
Cinna paced around his apartment on the afternoon he was to meet Electra. He was waiting for the knock on the door, and though he’d already tided up in his signature way—shoving the sequins, buttons, fabric scraps, feathers, needles, pencils, too many things—into closets and his bedroom, he checked repeatedly to make sure that things were presentable for someone else and not just for him.
His work, was, of course, already checked and excellent, if he said so himself. He could see why he’d been hired; he was proud of what he’d done so far for this client. He’d present it with confidence but humility, and know he was being honest. All he had to do now was wait.
A very usual custom for the lady was to be prompt and Electra had just arrived on time, as usual. This was due to the strict timings she had set upon herself, "to ensure there was no disruption" as her mother used to say. Upon walking up towards her destination, she remained uninterested in the world of vibrant colours surrounding her. The multiple promotions of surgery, outrageously flamboyant clothing and the Hunger Games posters were all too common to receive any of the woman's attention as she continued to reach Cinna's door.
She had heard about Cinna, quite a lot actually. His work was precisely sized to an individual and, much to a very uninterested model, actually rather beautiful. Electra was too stubborn to admit excitement for this visit though. This was the same as any other trip. She would just have to make polite small talk before a few nods and then, both parents would be pleased. The noises coming from the multitude of Capitol beings and their squabbling about various monotonous topics ceased themselves as she focused on the door. Clenching her right fist, she knocked on the door and took one step back.
She tried to lower her head, however her overly large turtle neck indigo top kept her head straight. Her neck was in agony- the constant pressure of knowing you could look at the floor when avoiding conversation only made her look angrier- she would get through it though. The top was tight at the top, as the ends at the neck folded over emphasising the fabrics crossing over the v neck cut out. It was an odd top, especially since it didn't allow her neck to move. However, as adviced by her small group of associates that all modelled, she had had her nails painted in the same colour. Electra did not care for the skirt of her outfit, nor for the steep heels she had become accustomed too over years of walking in them but the top? The top was odd to her and she didn't like the colour.
Waiting outside the door, she began to look straight on. Would this be of any benefit to her? Of course it was, she had heard of his work and it would help her career. Despite her lack of care for all of it, it was all she knew. And so Electra waited for an answer to fulfill another boring task for another boring day.