Ramse swiveled around in his chair, away from his computer screen. Then he had a second thought, and swiveled back again. On the graphIcs program he was using, he modified the curve of the jacket's side back-seam to a more shallow indent: a little more giving, more flattering.
As he perfected it, a stray thought intruded: just a wondering at what his kid self would have thought, if he could have foreseen the future, for Ramse.
That rowdy little punk, hopped-up half the time. Continually stopped by the cops, for vandalism, and graffiti, and the usual petty offences. Only too lucky, that they hadn't collared him for half the things he'd actually done.
Him and James, running for their lives. Little street-kid assholes, not sure they were ever going to make it out.
And he sighed: because if he could go back and tell that kid…
But anyhow. That was when the boss-lady put her head around his office door. Katarina Jones, owner and head designer of the 12 Monkeys couture house. Also a prime pain in Ramse’s ass.
But at least, she was in a good mood. Positively twinkled at him, from behind her little granny specs. “Ramse. My darling," she said. The German accent was still strong in her voice, after all these years. “The designs for Mr Cole — do they march? We must progress, Mr Ramse: even at 12 Monkeys, it’s not every day we produce designs for a film-star like Mr Cole, hm?”