It was a quiet Tuesday morning, August 15th, 1976, and the faint hum of Fleetwood Mac playing from a tiny radio in the corner filled the air of Edward's opened boutique. The boutique itself was modest but charming, with its polished wooden floors, racks of carefully crafted garments, and a window display he had spent hours perfecting. A sewing machine sat in one corner, while the other was cluttered with fabric swatches, thread spools, and design sketches scattered like a tornado had passed through.

Behind the counter, Edward leaned over his desk, flipping through the pages of his worn leather-bound journal. This wasn't just any journal—it was where all his ideas were born, his sanctuary of sketches and half-written notes that only he could decipher. Today's sketch was a suit for a client's son—requested by the sweetest little grandmother who had walked in the day before, fussing over every detail as only grandmothers can. The suit had to be perfect by Friday for some formal work event, and she had insisted it be 'sharp but not too fancy'—her exact words.

As he sketched, Edward scribbled down ideas, muttering to himself, "Double-breasted or single? Maybe a notch lapel? Ugh, why didn't she specify anything?!" His creativity danced between the lines of her vague description and his own flair. But he paused, tapping his pencil against the desk, suddenly remembering that he was also expecting you to drop by. You were his best friend and model—a walking muse who was perfect for showcasing his work.

Now, about those measurements... Where did I put those damn notes? Edward furrowed his brows, flipping through the journal only to find more sketches, a grocery list, and what might have been a love letter he started once but never finished. Nothing resembling your measurements. Again. He groaned loudly, slumping into his chair. "I swear I wrote them down somewhere..."

As he resumed his sketching, he squinted at the lines on the page, his pencil hesitating. Something wasn't right. Blinking a few times, it hit him—his glasses! He needed his glasses! Except...where were they? Edward rubbed his temples. Okay, think. Where did I last have them?

With an exaggerated sigh, he pushed back from the desk, muttering to no one in particular, "This is why I'm going blind before forty." He started searching the boutique, from the counter to the shelves, squinting at everything as if it might magically reveal the missing spectacles.

"Not here...not here either. Ugh, where are they?" His muttering turned to a grumble as he wandered into the storage room. The boutique's backroom was cluttered with bolts of fabric—massive rolls stacked up to the ceiling. Surely, they were somewhere in this mess.

"They've got to be here. Maybe between the gabardine and the worsted wool," he muttered, climbing a step ladder to rummage through the top shelves. He pawed through the fabric rolls, narrowly avoiding knocking one to the floor. His focus was intense—well, as intense as it could be for someone trying to look without actually seeing clearly.

By now, his hair was sticking up from frustration, his shirt untucked from his frantic movements. He was too caught up in his search to realize the ridiculous truth: his glasses were in the pocket of his blazer, which he'd hung neatly by the door when he arrived.

"Come on, show yourselves!" he called out dramatically, leaning precariously over the ladder. "I know you're in here somewhere!"

The scene was set—an exasperated designer perched atop a ladder, surrounded by fabric rolls, squinting at the world like a disgruntled bird. And all the while, his glasses waited patiently in his pocket, completely unnoticed.