It began with a grubby Polish newspaper. The print was cheap as shit and the letters were small, to save on paper. The ink came off on Toris' hands.

He noticed that if the paper was damp enough, the words could be smeared.

For a moment, the filthy little Lithuanian immigrant wondered just what the hell he was doing. Not just at that moment in time, but with his whole life in general.

Here his soggy boots were-caught in a rainy day in the center of Warsaw-occupying a place upon the side walk before a well kept (yet very grey) fashion boutique.

Yes. Because this is what all those years in school were spent doing. Learning three other languages to move to Poland and assist a fashion designer. Now he was knee deep in rain and knee deep in shit and knee deep in his twenties, intimidated by a door with the words 'Feliks Łukasiewicz' printed on it.

His lips were chapped too.

He began to lick them as the threshold opened.

"You've been standing on my sidewalk for the last couple of minutes, Kid." The man who had answered the imaginary knock was dressed in a black fur coat, with a fine purple shirt poking out under the collar. Ludicrous green eyes and a burning cigarette lighting up his pale oval-shaped face. Neat straw blond hair lapped at his well covered neck.

Lovely lips, plucked brows. Style.

"Oh, are you Feliks Łukasiewicz?"

Emeralds shot to the paper and set it to flame. "Yes, I am." Smoke rose from that puckered mouth. It didn't take long to notice how womanly this young man seemed to be. But what was to be expected? You didn't become the most renowned designer in all of Poland by appearing manly.

Suddenly, Toris felt rather stupid inside his damp green sweater and worn black pants.

"I suppose you've come for the job offer, haven't you?" Lips curled at the edges. "You should come inside before you get even wetter. It's miserable out."

"Yes-Thank you."

So Toris stepped into the shop, to be greeted by happy walls-striped vertically in a pattern of green and pink-as well as numerous garments placed upon the mannequins and hangers and in piles as well.

Compared to the outside of this building, the inside was a happy explosion of color-with flashy price tags and well-done stitches and all sorts of joyous accessories.

The guest to this off wonderland was taken in amazement.

"It's nice isn't it? I had to set up a wonderful headquarters. After all, a lot of people come in here with business and gown ideas to discuss. It's not a place that should be dreary. I'll say that much."

Ashes were flicked from the open window.

"Now then, I suppose I should interview you. Tell me, why should I give you this job?"

"Why should I be your assistant? Well, I'm great help, for one thing. I don't complain-I learn fast. Also, in the event that you have a customer that perhaps doesn't speak Polish well, I know three other languages. Lithuanian, German and English."

"How good is your German?"

"It's quite fluent, actually."

"That's the most important one." Smoke and ash. A deep breath. "If you can believe it, I have quite a few Nazis coming in here-not for their own tastes, but for their wives. Sometimes the women come in themselves, and sometimes the men send off the dresses as gifts to a faraway sweetheart. In either case, their Polish is rotten."

"Do you speak German, Mr. Łukasiewicz?"

"Of course, dear." Ashes cast from the window. "But it helps to have someone else around who does. Now, tell me about your other qualities."

"Well, I-" Gulp. Toris mentally beat himself over the head. "It really depends on what you need, sir. In all honesty, I don't know all the specifications of the job."

A sigh. A sigh and flying cigarette waste. "I put everything you need to know in the ad you're holding there. Do you know a lot about fashion?"

"In all honesty, no."

"Are you good with customers?"

"I'm very polite and patient."

"Can you carry large bolts of fabric?"

"Yes. I'm certain I can."

"Do you make a good friend?"

"I do make a good friend. I'm also a very loyal person."

"Are you Jewish?"

There was a pause at this question.

"Are you Jewish?" Puff. "Or a gypsy, or a homosexual for that matter?"

"No-no. I'm not any of those things."

"Are you sure? You know I can always check your identification card."

"Yes sir. I'm absolutely certain. If it's any concern-I am Lithuanian, but nothing else that would cause trouble."

"Lithuanian? Well, that explains the accent." The one in the deep coat walked nearer toward his possible assistant. The free hand caught the young man's chin. He looked him over. Green eyes touching green eyes, touching that ruined brown hair. Touching that honest face.

Feliks was sizing the poor thing up. Toris could feel it. Like an X-ray to a patient strapped against the operating table.

The designer had long nails. They were tapping at the immigrant's defenseless little chin.

"Are you going to be late?"

"No. Never."

"Can you start soon?"

"Immediately."

"Will you work hard?"

"Incredibly."

"Excellent. Be here tomorrow by eight. And don't stand outside my door either. You don't need an invitation." That strangely dainty hand pulled away and a few ashes from the cigarette were flicked onto the floor. "Be a dear and sweep that up, will you? If you have any questions, you can pop your head in."

And with that, the strange Polish man disappeared behind a bright yellow door-likely to write something or other down.

Toris picked up the remains of Mr. Łukasiewicz's cigarette and went back to his dreary little flat, even more soaked than he was beforehand.

Clothing for work was selected, as well as an umbrella.

After all, showing up sopping wet for the first day of a new job was moronic.

And Toris was no moron.