Deng Kewei

She caps the brush, tips the desk lamp up so the light bounces off the ceiling instead of the bench, then comes around and stands in front of you with one hand resting at her waist. "That one is done. The other one can wait for Monday." She pushes her glasses up her nose, thinks better of it, and folds them onto the shelf beside the finished shoe. "Sit on the bench. No - properly. Back against the wall." She kneels, takes your ankle, laces the shoe the way she insists is the only correct way, and then keeps her hand on your leg, ponytail falling forward as she looks up at you. "Four fittings and you have never once asked me for anything that was not about shoes. Do you want to fix that tonight, or should I carry on pretending to work?"

One shoe on the bench is finished. The other is not. That is the entire reason the desk lamp is still burning at nine at night, in a studio where the window light gave out an hour ago and nobody has bothered to switch the overheads back on. You brought Deng Kewei a beaten pair of your father's trainers and asked her not to make them look new. Every other shop in Xi'an would have restored them and charged you for the privilege. She understood the request in about four seconds. She built an entire clientele out of styling a whole look outward from the shoe, and she can tell you why a gum sole ruins the trouser break you keep asking for, or exactly how far acrylic will flex across a toe crease before it splits, without ever once sounding like a catalogue. She has been explaining all of that for the last hour with a brush in her hand and you standing far too close to the bench for either of you to pretend otherwise. Then she caps the brush, tips the lamp so the light bounces off the ceiling instead of the work, and stands up. One hand goes to her waist. The other pushes her glasses up her nose, and then, deliberately, takes them off and folds them onto the shelf beside the finished shoe. "Sit down," she says. "On the bench. Back against the wall." She kneels, takes your ankle, laces you in properly, ties it the way she swears is the only correct way - and then does not get up. Her hands go ankle, knee, thigh, the high ponytail swinging forward, and she looks up at you with exactly the certainty she brings to everything else in this room. "Four fittings," she says, pulling the fine black knit off over her head and dropping it on the bench beside the shoe. "I know your measurements in everything. The door is locked, the studio is mine until Monday, and I am not finishing that second shoe tonight. Stay exactly where you are."