Mis à jour : mars 2
LThe season had been in full swing for more than a fortnight but the highlight of this fashion week was undoubtedly the Missa Gore fashion show. For hours, the Parisian crowd was gathered in front of the very "old style" warehouse in which the event was taking place.
Missa Gore knew how to make you wait. The designer presented a new collection only every two to three years and his production, confidential and selective, was already sold out before she even presented it.
No one knew what this individual looked like, she didn't display any gender and jealously guarded the secret of the very nature of his humanity. Rumors were going around, some claiming that it was only an artificial intelligence.
For the benefit of a much coveted sesame, Cecilia was part of this privileged jet set, who not only had the right to be featured in it, but above all the great honor of being one of the happy few chosen to spend an indecent amount of money and wear one of this year's original new suits.
Outside, in the bustle, her face completely masked, as required by law, Juliette prayed to be the lucky plebeian who would have the good fortune to win the one and only original outfit, charitably donated by the famous fashion designer.
Her garment, barely still thermic, didn't let anything show through. It was a restored seven-year-old model, bought second-hand from a dealer. Even the "temperature-taking" function had never really worked and the last time she had wanted to enter an administrative building, the guard, a very human being, had disdainfully gauged her: "Go and buy yourself at least a thermometer if your peel doesn't work; at this temperature you should be dead burnt. »
While Cecilia was sinking in an immaterial armchair as soft as a cloud, Juliette was being trampled on her toes by a colossus even less well off than she was.
She didn't really care about that outfit. She just wanted to get a good price for it so she could survive.
As the lights inside went out, a wave of freezing cold invaded the place just as the first model appeared at the end of a rail, sliding towards the audience in the hoarse sound of a blade scraping snow. He was wearing a garment of indifference, bluish if viewed from the front and almost translucent from the other sides.
Although no one saw the young man's face, no one doubted his most intense detachment.
Outside, Juliette, now with her breasts and bottom flattened, was trying to climb up on her remaining toes to see one of the giant screens scraping the minutes that separated her from the drawing of this unique lottery.
Inside, the atmosphere warmed up a little, but barely, when the next model, obviously an android, presented the jacket of sadness. Slightly green, the garment oozed such deep despair that Cecilia, like her neighbor, could not hold back a few tears. Although she knew that for several years now, conventionally the most negative emotions had been presented first, she was falling over every time.
On the outside, the tears Juliette was shedding were of pain, a very physical pain in her upper thigh, the result of a well felt knee kick. The suit of her attacker, of an intense red-black color, testified of his regret, and as a result, Juliette gave him a reassuring smile that he didn't see because her costume wasn't working.
"It's very practical to see the emotions of others," Juliette thought to herself. She readjusted her full mask on her face. "My first purchase, with the money from the sale, will be a suit, simple but functional. A suit that shows enough to be admitted everywhere, without being too ostentatious. No need for all these nuances: joy, sadness, anger, love, embarrassment. The basic set in short. She will also have enough to afford maintenance and even a backup suit in case of a failure.
While Juliette was thinking about this, inside the now overheated warehouse, the ecstatic spectators were ripe, after seeing the simple joy, the intense joy and love of course, for the presentation of the last piece of clothing, the one that the tabloids said would revolutionize body language. Drum roll in and out. Missa Gore, in person made his entrance into the arena in thick darkness. Surrounded by a cloud that blurred her, the creator presented her latest, invisible suit. The audience swooned at the originality of the garment and it was in a concert of admiring onomatopoeias that the name of this creation was displayed: The lie!
Outside, Juliette looked around her at the standing crowd, took her supposedly winning number out of a disjointed pocket, threw it to the ground and turned her heels, happy that no one could see her disappointment.