Zip

He's been fussing with it for the last few minutes, trying to fit it one way and then the other, searching for a way to rejoin the pull tab to the slider. I want to tell him we tried that already last night. I want to tell him to start doing some proper tailoring.

Still I watch carefully, in case proper tailoring needs an audience.

Our two heads are bent over the puzzle, two sets of hands smoothing the fabric. I want to tell him that it's vintage. That I got it in LA. That when someone half a world away ran it up for themselves on a sewing machine they were also running it up for me.

'You sure this is from here?'

'Yes. Definitely.'

He looks over his glasses at me. 'How you do this?'

'I, um...' I mime reaching around to my spine but stop when I see the expression on his face.

'Totally broken.' He makes a gesture like the zipper's exploded. 'Someone pull too hard. Your boyfriend? Oh yes, he rush. Rush hour.'

I try to look nonchalant. An elderly Chinese man is quizzing me about my love-life. I can feel the blood flush my cheeks.

He shakes his head, not angry, just disappointed. 'Totally broken. Can't fix. Need new zip. For you, twelve pounds.'

I give him my name and number and, oddly, the country of my birth, but he hasn't finished with me yet.

He takes the dress, gives me a ticket and looks me squarely in the eye. 'You tell him next time, he be more careful. He no rush. Tell him...' The corners of his mouth twitch. 'Tell him slower is better.'