The girls arrived, with their smokey eyes and hair perfectly sewn into loose waves. They slipped their clothes off and got into the tiny lace dresses and black sleeveless jackets. The makeup artists made their legs shine with little magic tricks and the man himself, Luis Onofre, watched everything from a controllable distance. They walked. He saw them – the girls – with their suede boots and leather purses, with the bordeaux and the deep green and the black and the grey. He watched them, and he liked what he saw. His girls. Like a proud father or a sweet general or even a melancholic lover. The music pumped like blood through Oporto’s veins, as if Portugal Fashion had lived for that moment and that moment only. They stepped on the runway. Except they weren’t girls anymore. They were women. Onofre’s women.
By Irina Chitas