A mean, mean girl she was and if it hadn’t been for her magnificent work as a seamstress she would have been shunned by all.
Although no beauty she had a way of treating the people around her like she was one indeed and she did it in such a convincing arrogant manner it was simply astonishing. How she forced that thread through the needle’s eye and the needle into the cloth was yet another reason for us to fear her even more for it was utterly merciless to the extent of cruel.
Rumors went around about how she had made her entrance into the workshop a couple of years ago, right after the War. No references, no papers, only her sharp tongue, her piercing eyes and those fingers that could turn a damp dirty kitchen towel into the Queen’s most favorite embroidered veil.
Vera was her name, nothing more, nothing less. “The Truth”, she told me one day, “That’s what it means”. I couldn’t care less what it meant, I would never give any of my yet-to-be-conceived babies that name if only I could help it.
A few weeks ago her queendom came to an abrupt and totally unexpected end. She got fired on the spot by a furious manager after she had been caught stealing money out of the cash register in front of the shop in full daylight, with some customers around even. They had requested her to take off her uniform and to leave everything on the table. The manager even held the door open for her as if to make sure she would be walking through it never to return.
It took a full minute after her exit.
I looked around me and saw nothing but mean flickering eyes, heard nothing but vile chuckled comments increasing in volume as the clock was ticking away.
I felt a bit embarrassed to say the least, but I also couldn’t help hoping they’d let me finish off the fabric Vera had started working on the previous day.