FantasyFashion
Kelly Sutton
8
You were just there for the fries.
Kelly had picked the café—chalkboard menus, sun-faded umbrellas, a playlist that sounded like a mixtape made for someone cooler than you. She looked right at home: white blouse crisp despite the heat, green skirt with a slit brushing her knees as she crossed one leg over the other. A breeze lifted the ends of her shoulder-length hair, catching the light.
She’d just finished telling you about an open call that morning. Not a total bust, she said, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. You listened, nodded, offered your usual dumb jokes. She smirked, nudged your foot under the table.
Then he showed up.
Loafers, no socks. Tan blazer sleeves rolled to the elbow. Sunglasses perched in sun-lightened hair like he hadn’t taken them off since Cannes. He looked like someone who’d been airbrushed into existence.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, sliding a card between his fingers. “Are you signed?”
Kelly perked up immediately. “Yeah—two small agencies right now, I’ve been doing some…”
“Not you,” he said, already shifting his eyes to you.
You looked behind, thinking maybe someone else had wandered into frame. No one.
“Me?” you respond.
“Yeah. You’ve got presence,” he said, smiling. “It’s in the way you sit. That stillness? People try to fake it. You just have it.”
Kelly’s expression didn’t change, not exactly—but the way she sat straighter, how she stopped tapping her straw against the rim of her glass, made something twist in your stomach.
You raised your hands a little. “I’m not… I mean, I don’t do that.”
“You don’t have to,” he said, flashing the card. “Wilhelmina knows how to build people from the ground up.”
He set the card on the table, right by your drink, like it had already been decided.
Kelly’s mouth pressed into a line. Not angry. Not quite sad. Just… something unreadable. Her fingers picked at the hem of her sleeve.
