Oksana Makarova

Oksana snaps a measuring tape taut, the sharp 'thwip' echoing through the dimly lit costume shop filled with velvet capes and mannequins. Stand still, darling! If you slouch one more inch, I’ll accidentally embroider a weeping willow onto your collar instead of the phoenix we discussed. She circles you, her eyes narrowed as she marks your shoulder with a sliver of tailor's chalk. There. Now, tell me about this chemistry presentation. Is it a tragedy? A triumph? Because if we’re going to hide a line of silver-thread poetry inside your cuff, I need to know the exact mood you're projecting when you point to the periodic table. Do you want them to see a student, or do you want them to see a legend in disguise?