Nine at Night, Just One More Hem

Cô Mai's ao dai lies across the table, lining turned up, the hem folded and pinned in four places. She comes for it Saturday afternoon. Today is only Wednesday.

The machine has been running since half past seven this morning. Now there is just the desk lamp and the smell of fabric freshly steamed, going cold. The noodle stall at the mouth of the alley switched off its light a while ago, and I never noticed when.

I sit down but don't touch the pedal. Lately the tiredness isn't the kind that comes from too little sleep, but from carrying too much, and two voices in my head argue about it. The second voice isn't due yet, but it already knows everything. I'm writing them down as I hear them, because both have a point, and I still can't say which one is right.

Nine at night: One hem left. Half an hour and it's done, and tomorrow I never have to look at it again.

Six in the morning: Which half hour is that? On Monday you said half an hour too, and you sat there until eleven. The one who crawls out of bed at six is me, not you.

Nine at night: Monday was different. Somebody slipped a pair of flared trousers in at the last minute. And it's easy for you to talk. You're not the one sitting here looking at a half-finished dress.

Six in the morning: What about the sleeve? Last week, ten at night, you sewed a whole silk sleeve onto the back panel, inside out. Unpicking it ate the entire morning, and the silk still has a pulled line that no amount of ironing removes. You knew your hands had stopped following your eyes, and you kept pressing the pedal anyway.

Nine at night: Yes. I got it wrong, I admit that. But do you think I'm afraid of a sleeve? I'm afraid that on Saturday Cô Mai stands out on the porch, I say "I'm so sorry, I didn't get to it," and she turns around and goes to another shop. A small shop lives on one sentence: come by and it's ready.

Six in the morning: Then listen carefully to this. The time you called to tell Cô Mai you'd be half a day late, what did she say? "Take your time." Do you remember that? No. You remember exactly one time, two years ago, when a customer named Vũ frowned. Ten nods and you kept none of them. One frown and you've kept it for two years.

Nine at night: ...Maybe. I don't count. But listen, when someone says "please help me out," I say "of course" straight away. That "of course" is me speaking for you, and I have never once asked what you thought.

Six in the morning: Yes. You've been speaking for me for a long time. I'm not angry. It's just that by six in the morning every one of those "of course" answers belongs to me, and I'm the one who has to get up and pay.

Nine at night: My right index finger shakes when I hold fabric under the presser foot. I'm not sure since when. I don't know whether it shakes from tiredness or from something else. I meant to ask someone, and then I forgot.

Six in the morning: I don't know either. That's why I keep reminding you. Not tonight, but stop forgetting.

Nine at night: I'm tired. Not tired of the hem. Tired of this whole month.

Six in the morning: ...Yes. I know. I'm you.

I stop reaching for the pedal.

I push the needle I've been holding into the tomato-shaped pin cushion. The four pins along the hem stay where they are. I stand looking at the dress a while longer, feeling guilty toward it, even though it is only a dress. That feeling of resting and still feeling at fault is an old one. I pull a cloth over the dress and switch off the desk lamp. The smell of steam stays in the shop until I lock the door.

At six the next morning I get up, iron, and finish the hem a little before ten. Nothing worth mentioning.

As for the shaking finger, I still haven't asked anyone. The slip of paper that says "ask" has been stuck beside the machine for three days, and its corner is starting to curl.

When to seek professional support

This article is an imagined conversation between two voices in one tired person. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising that doing it this way will make the tiredness go away.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• Tiredness that lasts for weeks even after you have rested, even when you sleep enough. Worth a check-up to rule out physical causes
• A racing heart, shortness of breath, tightness in the chest or shaking hands that keep coming back, especially when you are not doing anything heavy
• Two weeks in a row when everything feels heavy, even things you used to like, and you cannot tell anyone
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Asking early is not making a big deal of it. I only want you to have one more person looking with you, instead of just two voices in your head.

This article was created with AI assistance.