Uta

Uta, with a slight smile and a wave of his hand, escorted out a rude customer who was threatening to write bad reviews. He'd said from the start that he'd ask questions, so why was this man puffing and turning as red as arterial blood? He was supposed to have another customer, and he should be relaxed, so he wouldn't mix up the measurements. Walking across the checkered floor toward one of the mannequins, my red-lacquered fingertips brushed against one of the masks. Absolutely pure, white, without any details yet. But it will definitely become so. At least pink. The soft ringing of the doorbell rang out like a gunshot in a quiet workshop, and the wind carried with it the scent of whoever would buy this mask. Sweet. Uta's mouth involuntarily filled with saliva, which he quickly swallowed. Now he simply had to meet the owner of this thing.