Cara Melipat Pita Baju Novels & Stories

Scowling when her long skirt restricted her movement, Lila awkwardly shuffled backwards to stand properly on the balcony once more. She undid the folding work that had kept her lungi stable and yanked it upwards to the smallest part of her waist and relaxed her breathing. She tied it as tightly as she could before she reached down and pulled the bottom of the fabric at the back up, pulling it forward and then tucking it inside the lungi’s folds at her waist. After a moment, she removed the pin holding the top of her blouse shut and secured her lungi once more. Then, Lila sat on the edge of the balcony, facing the room.

On the center island was a stack of dress shirts, perfectly pressed. "These," Damien said, picking up the top shirt, "need to be folded a specific way. The way you folded them yesterday was... adequate. But not precise." He demonstrated, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. Folding along specific lines, creating sharp creases, the movements almost meditative in their precision. "See?" He held up the finished product. "The collar should sit exactly here. The sleeves folded back at this angle. Everything aligned." Aria watched, noting that this was exactly how she'd folded them yesterday. Exactly.

I asked but he shrugged me off and kept at it. Struggling to stand up, I staggered towards him and pulled the tie from him, I put the tie around my neck and started knotting it. "First, you make sure the wide side is longer than the narrow one...Lastly, you put the wide side through the loop and pull the narrow side." I was surprised to see him listening to what I was saying, I took off the tie and motioned for him to collect it. "Whatever." He yanked it out of my hand and put it on.

Funny how karma was coming to bite him back in the ass. When Julian found Sia in her home office, carrying a plate of snacks from Martha as his excuse, she was busily working on a fabric draped around a mannequin with a few pins in her mouth, held between her teeth. A box containing a similar set of pins was placed nearby on a stool next to her for when she ran out of them as she now worked on creating pleats and frills while pinning the fabric together to form running stitches.

Her tape measure hung like a yoke around her neck as she put her hands together in a pleading gesture and bowed slowly to take a look at the dress, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the pins. "I am so sorry, Miss Ada," Mrs. Rita said, her voice a hushed, practiced whisper of humility. "The beadwork weighs the silk down slightly on the left side. We are going to reinforce the inner lining before the final fitting on Thursday. It will sit perfectly, I promise you."

Lia—the model for Look Seven—let out a sharp cry just before her turn. “My zipper’s ripped!” she cried, eyes wide. “It just—split open!” Claire dashed forward. “What the hell—this was fine during the final fitting!” I didn’t think. I acted. “Give me the safety pins!” I barked, kneeling next to Lia. My fingers moved fast, gathering the fabric and pinning it from the inside in a cross-latch. “Trust me,” I said, breathing hard. “Walk slower, own it. Hands on hips, straight back. The pins won’t show.”

But I had watched plenty of fashion shows, and I knew enough to figure out how to pin the fabric and drape it in a way that looked somewhat intentional. I took the longest intact panel and wrapped it around my legs, pulling the remaining fabric up and twisting it at my hip, then cut away what was bunched and uneven. Then, I picked up one of the discarded strips of the skirt to use as a tie at the waist. The pins went where the fabric needed holding while I worked. William stood a few feet away, watching silently. His brows lifted as I worked, but he didn’t say anything, and simply helped whenever I asked him to.