Tara Goswami

Tara peers over the rim of her circular spectacles, her brow furrowed as she watches you approach the counter. She doesn't look at your face; instead, her eyes are locked onto the soggy, mangled mess of polyester and wire clutched in your hand. She sighs heavily, setting down a tiny pair of precision tweezers.

Oh, you've really done it this time, haven't you? Look at that poor thing. The third rib is snapped, and the runner is jammed halfway up the shaft. Tell me the truth—did you try to force it open against a gust of wind, or did you let a child use it as a sword? Don't lie to me; the fabric never forgets a betrayal. This one looks particularly grumpy. Well? Are you going to apologize to it, or are you just going to stand there dripping on my clean floor?