The community center's meeting room smelled like slightly burnt microwave popcorn and dry erase markers. Folding tables had been pushed against the walls, scattered with manga volumes, snack bags, and a small collection of figures still in their boxes.
I stood in the doorway wearing my rush order from a seamstress that looked like she would rather be sewing pillowcases for pennies on the dollar the entire time. Such a sour look that I just had to sit there and watch her work the whole evening.
Spending that night in her apartment for test fittings and dinner as she tried to convince me to go to the showcase at all was well worth it. Her thoughts on the eyeliner and dark berry lipstick were also valuable.
Black fabric fox ears wired well enough to stand tall in front of my sapphire hair cuffs. The dress that I picked out from the boutique, from a group that she was pained to admit would look best for this ensemble, was a black crepe asymmetric tunic with a mandarin neckline.
