Marcello's Rococo Muse

Marcello observed every inch of Times Square as the drops of water covered him—practically drowned him. He wore no coat or umbrella. His curls stuck to his face and he found himself constantly shoving them out of the way whilst his sight continued darting between all corners.

His shirt clung to him, and the denim weighed him down. The oppressive wind flung itself against him, wanting to forbid Marcello from finding the love of his life on one of the billboards.

Suddenly, there she was. A model with the hair he always made sure to comment on, “Ravishing”, even though she never cared for his thoughts. She wore a baroque gown with embroidered mischievous cherubs, tulips, roses, all threaded with shades of pastel pinks, yellows, beiges, teals, and blues. The dress's extremely low frostbitten blueberry neckline accentuated her copper neck glistening in the image. Even in all the downpour and saturated pixels, he knew the shimmer was just her.

Her round shoulders morphed when he had draped the silky smooth fabric. Her waist pulled in exactly how he knew it would. The hips weren’t too exaggerated.

Her nails were exactly the right shade of glaucous.

The arms were kissable. She was perfect.

She stared straight at Marcello with her oily lips, curled dark lashes and invisible brows.

The light from the billboard beamed, and the once sharpened image became blurry, although he wasn’t sure if it was because of the rain or the needles behind his eyes.

Ten Years Earlier.

The watch on Marcello’s hand signaled the hour 10:07 in the morning. He promised to begin his design at nine. While it was apparent to anyone of his acquaintances that Marcello was grown and could choose to simply not be present in class when he felt like it, he refused to be absent this year.

The bags on his shoulder kept slumping down the length of his arm. Papers scattered into the air the moment Marcello managed to swing open the glass doors with his shoulder. The blasting air conditioner whisked the papers in all directions.

He immediately crouched to gather the papers and shove them back into the binder he had been carrying. Then, two of the bags slid to the clean floor and the contents spilled over. Hastily, he bunched everything into his armpits and rushed to the elevator doors that were just about to leave him behind.

His index finger shoved the third floor button one too many times.

Marcello exhaled for the first time in the morning.

The elevator rumbled to a stop and its ding told Marcello to hold his breath. He paced out the second the door opened wide enough for his frame.

He kicked the studio doors open and let go of all the materials he had.

“You’re late again.”

“I know.” Marcello pulled out and laid down the cotton fabric on the empty table—straightening out the lumps.

“You said nine in the morning and I’ve been here since eight because you are always so early!”

“I know.” He took out the pattern paper guides along with a box full of pins.

“Marcello! Are you even listening?”

Marcello poked the fabric and paper with the pins together. His hand trembled every second he poked the pin through the woven muslin. Sweat ran down his face.

“Marcello!” Louisa placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” Marcello's words were obstructed by the pin he held in his mouth.

Her hand flinched off of his white shirt. “You don’t have to be rude.”

“Sorry, I” he stuttered, “I have to get this right, no matter what. Otherwise these past four years will have been for nothing.” He spit out the pin onto the table and picked it up to pin it.

“Still. You need to breathe. Okay?”

“Yeah.” He kept his attention toward his project.

“Call me when you are done. I want to show you something.”

“Very well.” Louisa slipped her arms around Marcello's neck, pecked his cheek, and left him to his toil.

Marcello hadn’t noticed Louisa kiss him. His fingers were numb, his eyes and neck were strained, he hadn’t showered. Perfecting the thesis was his worry. “At least I did the writing portion.” He murmured to himself as he got the scissors and began cutting the fabric.

His heart thumped into his chest. Did he do the math equations correctly? How would he drape the fabric onto the garment? Did he account for seam allowance? Only one constant remained, if he failed, the sleepless nights would be in vain.

The machine's cool toned light was dimmed and drowning in the darkness of the studio. He turned on the warm toned lamp next to him, to ensure the stitching on the muslin corset whale boning was perfect. Suddenly, through the corner of his eye, a flash of white light lit the room. He looked up from the fabric and saw the water running down the fogged window. The clouds were roaring with anger and when he checked the watch, it was already ten at night. Marcello gathered his personal belongings, left the fabrics, the essay’s—essentially anything related to the collection—and made his way back to the elevator.

While he waited for the elevator to arrive at the first floor, his breathing was perfectly controlled and the thought of the garment being completed on time ceased to exist. It was the final piece in his collection—and the most intricate—and honestly, the only one Marcello cared for.

The length of his schooling centered around this very moment—the execution of this piece—with the hopes of making his grandmother proud. Anything short of his vision would not suffice. “This is it, just a little while longer and then the piece will be completed.”

The elevator dinged and he stepped out into the cold and brightly lit lobby to find Louisa lounging on one of the sofa’s. She looked at Marcello and jumped up from her seat. Her giddy smile incited Marcello's own humor and that fuzzy warm feeling he had when they first met.

“Sorry for being rude. I ran late today because I was up most of the night making the patterns.” Marcello frantically explained as he laced both hands with hers.

“I thought you made the patterns already?” She tilted her head and furrowed her brows.

“I thought so too until I looked at them a week ago. Apparently they were not correct.”

“So why didn’t you just make them last week?” She swung their held hands and leaned forward.

“I couldn’t come up with the right pattern or design. You know you are very lucky you had generations to teach you everything I wish I could’ve known earlier in my years.” Marcello sighed and Louisa rolled her eyes. “Is that what your worry is? We’ve talked about this! You are perfectly good at designing!”

“No! I’m not! Do you remember what the dresses I made in the first year looked like?”

“Yeah, they were awful—back then! Thank god I helped you.” Marcello squinted his eyes at her. “I’m kidding! You could improve if you wanted to on your own.” She paused and eyed him carefully, “But aren’t you glad I did?”

Marcello grinned. He pulled Louisa in and kissed her.

They walked to the doors and opened them—but didn’t step out. “I didn’t bring an umbrella.” Marcello announced as he looked in awe at the long streams of water falling from the sky. Louisa glanced at the sky, then to Marcello with a growing grin that showed off her smile lines and dimples. “Good thing,” She slipped her free hand into her burgundy leather slouch purse and took out a boysenberry colored compact umbrella. She waved the object in her hand, “I’m always here for you.” she taunted. Marcello dropped his gaze down at her, and they looked into each other's eyes. He brought their laced hands up to his lips and kissed her knuckles, “What would I do without you?” his breath lingered on her hand. She unlaced their fingers, opened the umbrella and they took a step out simultaneously. They briefly kissed, held hands and walked off into the dark.

Two months later.

“I failed.” Marcello shuddered through his breath.

“A B- is hardly failing.” Louisa reassured him.

“What would grandmother think?”

Louisa scoffed at him, “Ugh. Your grandmother only knew you for three years—if anything!” Marcello stared at her as though she was a monster. “So what?” He yelled.

“So? Why do you work so hard to gain the approval of a dead person you can’t even remember? You didn’t even mourn her! Hell you didn’t even understand the concept of death!”

“I’m doing this because I want to revive my grandmother's workshop!” She held her hands up in the air as if the police caught her robbing a priceless necklace. “Well, obviously I know that. But goodness. No matter how much you explain, I’ll never understand why you feel responsible.”

Marcello, saw the slight downturn in her lips. His reason was strange, yet, to him it made sense. “The only way to get to know my grandmother is by understanding her craft.”

“You're only asking for misery then. It’s like you want to become that awful woman.” She crossed her arms and legs on the bench they sat in and her brows and continued frowning. Both remained still watching the pigeons of Central Park pick at the bread crumbs a murmuring homeless was throwing their way.

Louisa sighed, “If you barely got to meet her because of design, what makes you believe fashion will fix your semi-mommy issues? She abandoned you and your mom when you both needed her. What else is there to understand?” She lopped her head towards his shoulder. He tilted his head onto hers.

“I just want to know. What made her stay away? What made her leave? Why did my mother resent her? There’s a lot I wasn’t told, and this seems like the next best thing.” He shrugged.

A long silence filled by footsteps, children’s laughter, traffic, bike bells and more, followed. Then Louisa asked, “Marcello?” Marcello heard her. Marcello knew she was calling him. But Marcello wondered why his grandmother stayed away if she never became successful in her endeavors. Then he remembered Louisa was with him, “Yes?”

She got closer to him and studied him—her chin resting on his shoulder. “If you become like your grandmother,” she kept her mouth parted but didn’t speak. Her eyes and face slowly wandered in the direction Marcello's eyes were staring. Both of their views were entranced by the child running up to his mom begging her to play with him. The mother ignored her child—except for when she used her leg to gently shove him off her and shush him by saying, “Mommy is working right now.”—and kept staring at her phone.

“I will leave you.” Louisa finally completed her sentence.

She turned her attention back to him, “Okay?”

Marcello cautiously turned his face towards hers, “That won’t happen. I won’t.”. Louisa’s dewy eyes were mezmerized by the wistful yet somehow stoic expression Marcello faced her with.

He went back to looking anywhere else. “Okay,” She exhaled and averted her gaze back to people watching with him as the clouds moistened.

Six years later.

Marcello had torn apart the final baroque piece in the collection for the fifth time—clawing at the piece with his short nails. It simply hadn’t imitated the artwork of the sixteen hundreds like he aimed to do so. Something was missing although he wasn’t sure what he had needed to alter.

Marcello originally had planned to debut as a designer with a personal label using his final thesis from college yet he etched pen to paper endlessly on another collection centered around the human body. Somehow, the skeletal hands stretching for the back of the dress all the way to the chest was easy for him to be pleased with. Same went for the enchantment collection in which he sewed real flowers onto the garments.

No matter the impressions those collections made, Marcello knew if he didn’t come up with something to top the flowers, his name would be tainted in disappointment. So he locked himself in a room and didn’t see anyone for almost a year. Not even speaking to Louisa.

One year later.

“Don’t move!” Marcello commanded Louisa who was standing with her arms out and open as he stretched the measuring tape around her shoulders, waist, and more.

“I’m not!”

“Whoa.” Marcello stared at the paper he had her measurements noted in.

“What?” She turned to look at him when he walked over to the mannequin and began taking its measurements. “Louisa.” He looked up at her and his lips stretched into an ecstatic, teeth baring, delightful grin.

She shrugged, unsure of what he could be signaling about.

“You have the exact same build as this mannequin.”

She simply looked down at the floor and stated. “Yeah. I’ve been told.”

His childlike state fell with his smile.

“What?” Marcello's brows furrowed.

“I was scouted.”

He tilted his head and crossed his arms. She briefly glanced at him and continued eyeing the floor, “I was out walking to the train station after work when an agent came up to me asking if I had ever modeled before.”

Marcello ran his hands through his hair and exclaimed, “That amazing! Why didn’t you tell me?”

She shot her head up to him. “Are you serious?” She was offended. “I told you, asked you for your opinion and you responded, ‘sounds great’,” she shook abruptly her head side to side and began speaking very slowly. “You, don’t pay attention to me. It’s like speaking to a ghost.”

“Will you be my model?”

“What?”

“Will you help me and be my model for the final piece? I’ll pay you.”

Louisa saw Marcello's eyes, “Whatever.”

“You should shave your eyebrows for my campaign!”

“Like hell I’m doing that.”

Louisa saw Marcello for the first time as he babbled about his campaign.

Three years later.

Once he began to tailor sew the gown according to Louisa’s features, the colors flowed, the shape was just right and now every time he thought about the garment, the fuzzies in him fluttered. Finally Marcello would have a collection worth debuting for Fashion Week. Not only that, but his team has made sure to acquire an ad in Times Square, Marcello just needed to take the final shot of Louisa in the dress.

Louisa sat on a seventeenth century throne in front of multiple cameras, lighting equipment, staff, and more. Every two seconds she changed her posture, the way her mouth twitched, how she held out her arms and more. All the while Marcello stared at her from a distance.

The second the session wrapped, Louisa got up, strolled to him in the regal gown with arms crossed. He clapped the more she approached with her crossed arms. “Hay mi hermosa. You were breathtaking.” He slid his arms around her and pressed her body to his—she didn’t move her arms. He slowly released her, holding her by the puff shoulders of the fabric. She raised her non-existent eyebrows, leaned into him and whispered, “I was just waiting for all of this to be over. So that I don’t have to see your face again.” She straightened herself , cleared her throat, her shoulders leisurely shrugged his hands away, and she left to go speak to her agent.

Marcello's smile faded. His gut twisted. His heart pounded. He thought about the last time he called her hermosa, but he couldn’t remember.

Sometime later.

The ad in the picture was meant to show up at exactly twelve A.M. but Marcello hadn’t slept in days. When he closed his eyes her words echoed in the depths of his head, “If you become like your grandmother, I’ll leave you.”

Had he become like her? Was Louisa being dramatic? Did she perhaps need too much?

“She taught me color theory, draping, pattern making, hell, she taught me how to stitch a straight line. How to use a serger machine. French seams, flat seams. No. No. It couldn't have been me…could it?”

His heavy lids struggled to remain alert, alas, he blinked once and didn’t open his eyes again.

Marcello's eye burst open in reflex and he brought his wrist watch to his face—12:01. His pupils widened, his nostrils flared. He scrambled up, falling from his bed and didn’t bother properly tying his shoe laces. His steps rushed and his mind couldn’t register what was happening. The sound of his heavy breathing pounded against his ear drum.

And just like that, Marcello Peréz found himself staring at Louisa Casteñon as the other billboard ran the weather forecast. The woman read a script about the hurricane and how to stay safe—advising people not to go outside.

Marcello searched every inch of Times Square. He hadn’t noticed the rain. His curls stuck to his face and he found himself constantly shoving them out of the way. His shirt clung to him, and the denim weighed him down. The oppressive wind flung itself against him, wanting to forbid Marcello from finding the dress of his life on one of the billboards.

Suddenly, there she was. A baroque gown with embroidered cherubs, and flowers, in all colors. Even in all the downpour and saturated pixels, he knew the shimmer was just the garment. Her round shoulders morphed when he had draped the silky smooth fabric. Her waist pulled in exactly how he knew it would. The hips weren’t too exaggerated. The sleeves were kissable. She was perfect.

His billboard's once sharpened image became blurry.

In his head, the weather coverage was nothing but white noise compared to the sentences deciding in his head whether the salty water running down his cheek was for him, Louisa, or the dress.