“Oh my god,” she said as she set everything on her lap. There was a medium-size shoulder bag, a laptop sleeve, and a padfolio—all genuine soft leather. All made, start to finish, by me—cut, stained a deep, rich brown, and branded with a small monogram. I watched her drag her fingers over the surface of everything, but she stayed silent. I started to feel embarrassed. Was this silly? Did I spend hours making things that she wouldn’t even like or use? Was it weird that I’d made her something personal instead of just buying her something generic and easy? “These are…beautiful, Dusty,” she said as
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