Another Night at Cielo

At exactly six o’clock, Dawn flipped on the light hanging over the front door to let the neighborhood know that Cielo was open for business.

It was a crisp autumn evening, October, late enough into the season that there was nothing subtle about the drop in temperature. Orange and brown leaves were tangling into themselves before catching a drift along the wind, and Dawn lingered by the window to watch them fall before deciding that it was time to get to work.

It would be a quiet night. Cielo was (almost) always quiet. There were no appointments scheduled, but that didn’t mean a straggler couldn’t pass by and wonder what shop still had its lights on.

After tying a black apron tight around her waist and pulling as much of her short, bleached hair as she could into a simple tail on top of her head, Dawn circled the showroom in one lazy sweep, broom dragging against the dark tile.

The shop was small so there wasn’t much to clean. The showroom was just a corner of shelves stacked with fabrics of all shades and colors, and one large mirror that stretched ceiling-to-floor. A few mannequins showed off the ready-made suits walk ins could grab off their wooden shoulders.

At the opposite wall was the reception desk, a long, oak thing that had been around since her Great-Grandfather opened for business, and a few upholstered armchairs that needed mending, but she didn’t quite have the time for it.

She could do that now, Dawn mused, lingering, but in the cracked opening of the workroom door, piles of navy wool and pastel cotton peeked at her. There was work to be done.

So, she worked.

The front door’s bell didn’t chime until hours later, well past a reasonable hour for customers. Dawn hunched over the cut patterns of a navy dinner jacket, stretching across the wide worktable to score measurements. She didn’t stop until her line was finished, and when she looked up a friendly smile greeted her, accompanied by a cheeky wink.

“Your shirts won’t be done until tomorrow,” seeing who it was, Dawn relaxed deeper into the table, going back to her lines.

“I know. Just saw your light on and thought you were lonely.”

Classic rock was blaring from a small stereo propped at the other end of the table, the newest update to a shop that hadn’t changed much since it was founded in the 40s. Dawn reached over to turn the dial down, but only by a notch, just to be polite.

Her visitor didn’t mind. An old, wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair, dressed smartly in a patterned dress shirt, dark pants and shoes, Mouse had been a regular since her grandfather was an apprentice tailor.

He was due for some fancy function next week and thought he’d celebrate the occasion with a pair of dress shirts. What the function was, he didn’t say. Despite Mouse’s friendly disposition, there was a sharp edge to his gaze, and he left a lot unsaid. Dawn decided a long time ago that the less she knew about the man’s going-ons, the better.

Without asking, he meandered into the workroom, separated from the showroom by a barn-style rolling door, and turned on the kettle hiding on the back corner. He set himself up with mugs, tea, the works, spooning in more sugar than should be reasonable for anyone, and when his drink was done, he pulled up one of the armchairs and watched Dawn cut out the jacket’s front and back panels.

They stayed that way for at least ten minutes, Dawn cutting away, Mouse sipping. There was no awkwardness in their silence. It was comfortable, as if he hadn’t interrupted her peace in the slightest.

Finally, he asked, “That boy’s not here?”

He was talking about her brother. Dawn frowned, only slightly, and started to shuffle her scraps off the table.

“No. Said something about a school trip.”

“I didn’t know school trips lasted that long,” Mouse said, finishing his drink in one long slurp, “Last I saw him, it was still hot outside.”

No, college trips did not last two months, but Dawn had given Owen the benefit of the doubt. He didn’t like working under her, and she didn’t need an apprentice, so his absence had been a quiet blessing for the both of them. The less she saw of him, the better.

Still, it made Mouse purse his lips, “You should reconsider your hours. It’s not safe to keep the shop open this late at night, especially if you’re by yourself.”

Dawn didn’t argue with him. This topic slipped between them at least once a week, every time Mouse followed his fixed route into her side of the neighborhood. He was always in the shop for something- if not a shirt, then a pair of socks, or a jacket, or pants, or a tie, or a mug of tea- and she knew that it was mostly out of duty toward her late grandfather than loyalty as a customer.

Dawn also knew that she got her best clientele at night, so even though she nodded, there was nothing to reconsider. Mouse wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t late. No ordinary old man walked around so late at night without a decent reason.

She peeked over his head. Out the window, she could catch the outline of a dark car across the street, the streetlights reflecting off its roof. Shadows sprinkled near its doors, all threatening, all watching. Waiting.

Mouse caught her looking. He smiled and stood, stretching. The cuff of his geometric-patterned dress shirt pulled back just enough to reveal a hint of a tattoo. A large one, stretching all the way up his arms and to his back. A tiger. Dawn had measured him enough times that she could picture it with her eyes closed.

The old man ruffled her hair like he did when she was a little girl and warned her again about keeping her shop open late, with all those creeps roaming around, and she waved him out knowing full well that he was one of them. She heard him stomp down the flight of stairs, and the car door opened and shut on the street below.

Late night continued, and Dawn plugged in her steam iron. Pattern, press, stitch. When the jacket was done, and the pants with it, she looked up just in time to spot the blue light of morning reach its fingers over the trees in front of her shop. She checked her emails (adding another suit for a black-tie party onto her to-do list) and locked the door just as the birds began to chirp.

Another night at Cielo. Dawn Clarke, the bespoke tailor, switched the lights off and trudged upstairs to bed.