Runway Star

RUNWAY STAR
by
Gerrie Beck

Reena stood straight, hips tucked in, shoulders back, yet Yozi pushed at her body as if he were molding clay. 

“Reena, you’re slouching.  I cannot get this hem right if you bend forward, even an inch.”

A tear touched her closed eyelashes.  Once again, she was questioning what she was willing to do for money.  Although the money was good, very good, allowing her to vacation in Monaco and Costa de Sol, she floated on a vision of clear, warm, smoky blue water, her body being manipulated by sun and sea.  Far better than the reality of the moment.

“Yozi, stop pulling so.  I’m arching forward.” 

He pushed her body back again in a quick punch, not hard, yet firm enough.  “Reena, for heaven’s sake, you’re on the runway in fifteen minutes.  It wasn’t me who put this dress on and tore the hem."  She didn’t care.  Andre’s new spring line was absolutely horrible.  She was belted and buckled in at the waist with silver and black leather.  The dress cutting mid-thigh was silver metallic in color and felt like molded steel – she could barely bend and teeter-tottered as she walked, and that’s exactly how she tore the hem.  Metallic fishnet hose adorned her scrawny legs and knees.  She only ate yogurt and salad and stuffed herself with protein pills and powder.  Andre was insistent his models weigh no more than 110 pounds and stand 5’10” tall.  “The bone structure of the face must show on all my models,” was forever his quote to the media.  Yozi had finished the hem and Fiona showed up and sprayed a fixative on her face and hair. 

“All set, Reena,” Andre bellowed as he slid the final feature of her costume into her hand – a silver and leather chain, which she was to swing as she did the runway strut.  How she hated him this year.  He had made a mockery of her femininity, fragility as sexual exhibitionism replaced his runway world.  His mother had died recently.  Andre slapped her on the behind as
she strutted out, pouty lips, hauty walk, heart of stone.
                                   
                                            *****
Based on a newspaper Article in this Sunday’s Washington Post which reads:  What’s Italian For Ouch?  Male Designers Pull Out a Trunkful of Misogyny in Milan.  (And yes, they are belted and carry whips and chains and the article attributed it to some angry designers especially Dolce & Gabbana)