Work Text:
2026
Henry Loomis never leaves work early. He’s the first to arrive and the last to leave on a consistent basis, always unlocking the door to the paleontology division just as the sun comes up and locking it when it goes down.
Tonight is no different.
It’s just his luck, then, that he’s stumbled into the chaos of a blue carpet as he rounds the corner to the front of the museum, after slipping out the side door late into the evening.
Right. The Met Gala. It’s all anyone else had been discussing in the division today. How could he forget?
He forgot quite easily, actually. He doesn’t concern himself with anything that doesn’t involve dinosaurs. Instead of focusing on whoever’s attending tonight, he’s more absorbed with just how many people will get a glimpse of the main hall, with his beloved Barosaurus and Allosaurus standing tall within it. Perhaps they would take an interest in fossils, not fashion, and choose to fund research, instead.
He can only hope. God knows the museum needs it. That’s part of why the Gala is being held here.
Henry knows he’s one missed donation, one failed benchmark, one denied funding from being laid off and being forced to relocate to London. If these people don’t at least take the slightest interest in his specimen tonight, his life as he knows it may very well be over.
He’s so engrossed in these thoughts of research and unemployment as he crosses the street that the sound of the cameramen’s shouts and loud directions jolt him back to reality, and he can’t help but steal a glance at the towering front of the museum as he walks by.
The lights illuminating it look beautiful tonight, although he finds the banners on each side of the entrance to be ridiculous and repetitive (spring florals, really?). The blue carpet runs down the massive stairs like some sort of rushing river, and he watches as a stylish older woman emerges from a sleek black car, the train of her red dress flowing behind her as she turns for the cameras, which are now flashing more aggressively and much brighter than they were before.
It’s an oddly transfixing scene, and Henry isn’t normally transfixed with anything other than dinosaurs. Something about it is so ridiculous, so overblown, that he can’t help but allow himself to watch it, if only for a moment.
The woman turns to the edge of the carpet, seemingly for an interview, and Henry blinks.
His attention is diverted by a quick black flash in the corner of his eye, and his gaze lands on that of a younger woman, her updo accented by what look like a pair of black chopsticks. She’s directing the older woman and her partner, a man whose bald head shines under the lights, with exact, no-nonsense precision. She moves out of the way when she needs to, her movements swift despite her tight dress and what seems to be some sort of cone around her neck.
Despite the ridiculousness of the whole affair, he can’t help but be drawn to her, even temporarily. Even in black, she manages to stand out among the hoard of other attendees, her chopstick accessories pointing upwards like the long necks of some of his favorite species. Just as quickly as she appeared, however, the woman scampers up the stairs and disappears into the growing crowd, and Henry shakes his head, turning his attention away from his favorite place in the world.
The only upside to potentially losing his job is that he’ll never have to see that sort of extravagance and chaos ever again.
Hopefully.
2027
Amari Mari never arrives to work late. In keeping with Miranda’s oftentimes unpredictable schedule, she’s made a point to arrive at least 45 minutes before the rest of the team every single day.
It’s a habit that’s carried over ever since she was promoted from first assistant to public relations manager, specifically in crisis communication and reputational management, after Runway’s big overhaul when Sascha Barnes bought out the Elias-Clarke organization last year. Given Sascha’s phenomenal philanthropic record, Amari’s new job is an easy one. It’s Miranda she still has to keep track of.
The devil herself is quite fond of her, and so Amari stays in her orbit, still offering her (and everyone else) practical advice about what to say and how to say it, where to go and when, and everything in-between when Charlie cannot.
He often cannot.
This is why, this year, it’s her and Charlie puttering alongside Miranda at London Fashion Week, and Amari is still never, ever late.
She arrived at the London Museum of Natural History a full hour before everyone else, sweet-talked her way in by complimenting a guard, and now stands among a small crowd of event workers as they wheel stacks of chairs into the main hall. It’s busy, but not overly so. She can handle it.
Not until she answers this text from Miranda, of course. And a few emails. And perhaps that reporter from Page Six she’s been so desperately trying to avoid.
She’s so engrossed in her current plan for handling things that she barely notices the sound of a throat being cleared in front of her.
“Excuse me, miss.” A voice jolts her back to reality, and her gaze snaps upwards to meet a pair of brown eyes hidden behind thin wire frames. She must have looked shocked, because he hurriedly says, “Sorry, I was just trying to check on Manty.”
His rushed apology falls on deaf ears, because Amari has no idea what he’s talking about. “I’m sorry?”
“The mantellisaurus? Mantellisaurus atherfieldensis?” The man in front of her says, blinking at her. “Behind you?”
“The– the what?” She frowns, glancing at her phone, where Miranda’s speech bubble is typing. “Sorry, but I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
“The, uh, the dinosaur,” He replies, carefully shifting his worn leather bookbag. “Behind you.”
Amari’s eyes widen in feigned understanding. “Oh! Yes, right.” She says, taking a step to the side and turning a bit. “That.”
That is indeed a dinosaur skeleton, enclosed in a glass case in one of the small alcoves in the main hall, beside the massive suspended skeleton of a blue whale that hangs from the ceiling.
“Manty’s the holotype,” The man explains, pulling a key from his bag and opening the case behind her. “He’s one of the most complete dinosaur fossils ever found in the UK.”
Amari lets out an uninterested hm and opens her inbox, trying to drown him out.
“And,” he continues, and here she can identify him shuffling in the background, “He happens to be missing a bone.”
Another hm leaves her mouth. Charlie will be on his way soon, tasked with double-checking Miranda’s entrance time, and Amari’s decided not to reply to that Page Six reporter. The workers in front of her are noisily dragging the chairs across the floor, and she can really only handle one headache at a time.
She hears the crinkling of a plastic bag behind her, and, against her better judgement, looks over her shoulder to see a lumpy brown dinosaur bone being placed on a tablecloth-sized drop cloth on the floor. Her nose wrinkles - it’s set up uncomfortably close to her Manolo slingbacks.
“Do you really have to do whatever that is right now? Right here?”
He looks up at her from his spot on the floor. “I can only work on this after hours. And it’s just one bone, thankfully. Should be done in no time.”
She glances down at him, lip curling as she catches a glimpse of the bone again. “Right.”
“You don’t have to stand here, you know,” he adds. “If this is such a distraction.”
She huffs, looking down at her phone. An incoming call from Charlie. “No, no, I’m fine. You said it would only take a moment.”
“I did,” He affirms, but his voice sounds distracted. Amari barely hears him, anyway, as she’s bringing her phone to her ear.
“What’s wrong?” She asks, no-nonsense. Charlie only calls when he’s having an issue with something and needs her advice, which is, unfortunately, quite common. A deep sigh leaves her as she hears him describe his current situation - he’s at Harrod’s and cannot, for the life of him, remember which bottle of water Miranda requested.
“It’s Aqua Carpatica,” Amari tells him, her voice tinged with annoyance, after he’s finished spilling his guts out to her. “Miranda requested it be put underneath her chair, which is in the first row, of course, 12th in line out of 50 chairs in one row. The cap must be three-fourths of the way closed, so that she does not spill it when she reaches to quench her thirst or hide her displeasure with one of the pieces. She’s right-handed, so it is very important that it’s placed on the right-hand side underneath her chair. Our left, her right. Next time, write this down. Got it?”
Charlie blurts out his profuse thanks, and Amari hangs up, shaking her head slightly as she places her phone back into her clutch.
“I’m sorry, who is Miranda?” The man behind her asks, his voice echoing slightly. She turns, finding him halfway inside the glass case, sleeves rolled up as he delicately attaches the last bone to the dinosaur’s tail. Amari frowns at the audacity of his question. Everybody knows Miranda.
“Miranda,” She repeats, dumbfounded. “Miranda Priestly?” She says, like it’s obvious.
“Miranda Priestly?” He’s laser-focused on his task at hand. “Is she one of the guests tonight?”
Amari nearly blanches. “She’s the global head of content for Runway.”
The ignorant nerd in front of her grunts as he finishes attaching the bone and moves to position it just so. “I have a feeling you’re not going to like this,” He says, wiping the dust from dead dinosaur remains onto his faded trousers and poking his head out of the massive case. “But what’s Runway?”
“It’s a magazine.” She stares at him like he’s grown three heads. “Are you going to ask me what a magazine is?”
To her surprise, he laughs, stepping out of the case. “No,” he replies, a hint of a smile on his lips, and Amari’s taken aback - just slightly. Maybe a bit more when she sees him pull down the sleeves of his jumper, hiding his forearms from view. She doesn’t know why, but she frowns. Again.
Once again, her lip curls in badly-hidden disgust. Now that she’s gotten the chance to actually look at him, she’s absolutely appalled by the fabric monstrosity in front of her. He’s wearing corduroy trousers with a plaid shirt and a jumper, and it looks obscene. Not to mention his scuffed leather dress shoes, which seem to have been pulled straight from a Goodwill bin and are in desperate need of maintenance. So much so that she thinks she’d be willing to shine them herself.
“I’ve been subscribed to Palaeontology Journal for nearly seven years,” He says, matter-of-fact, like she’s supposed to know what that is. “And National Geographic, of course.”
“Of course,” Amari replies, blankly. The last time she ever heard anyone under the age of 50 say the words National Geographic in the wild was close to 15 years ago, when she was sat in science class in year 10, scrolling through an online archive of every issue of Vogue instead of doing her coursework. “And that’s why you’re dressed like a frumpy professor?”
Oddly, he doesn’t take offense to her comment. “I’m a paleontologist,” he explains, rolling up the drop cloth. Once he stuffs it into his worn bag, he holds out his hand for her to shake. “Dr. Henry Loomis.”
Amari doesn’t take it. “Loomis,” She repeats, testing the name out on her lips. “Amari Mari.” Then, she straightens up, asking him the question she asks everybody at the office and at events. “Who are you wearing?”
He blinks, a small crease appearing between his brows as he looks at her. He must think he misheard her, she reasons. “I’m sorry?”
Fine, she’ll repeat it. Her eyes tilt downward, staring at his bag. “Who are you wearing?” She says again, her voice sharp. “Todd Snyder? Ettinger?”
Loomis stares, his eyes comically widened by his wire glasses. “Y-you’re asking the brand?” He croaks, and she nods.
God, what a nerd.
“Um,” He fumbles, trying to open the bag to see if there’s a tag or a maker’s mark anywhere, and clearly comes up short. “Sorry. It’s, uh, from a consignment place in New York. No tag.”
“Hm,” She says, for the third time that day, and studies him. He seems a little skittish and quite unprepared for her question. “And the jumper?”
“Land’s End, I think.” He swallows, trying to avoid her gaze. “I thrifted it.” He says, and there’s so much shame in his voice she might as well have thought he said I stole it.
“Ah,” Amari tilts her head to the side. “Well, Runway is a fashion magazine, which is why I ask.” A beat. “Fashion is my job.”
Loomis pushes his glasses up his nose. “I can see that.”
Clearly.
“And your job is… archeology, you said?” She asks.
“Paleontology,” He corrects, scratching at his beard, before jumping into an explanation. “Archaeology is the study of human life and culture. Paleo’s non-human life, like dinosaurs.” Loomis says, jutting a thumb backwards at the skeleton behind him. “And fossils and such. Common mistake.”
Amari nods. “Just like pairing corduroy with plaid.” She gives him a once-over yet again. “Common mistake,” She repeats, tucking her hair behind her ear and snapping open her clutch to grab her phone.
“Right,” He replies, looking down at his clothes, but she isn’t listening. Charlie’s here, with several bottles of Aqua Carpatica water in hand and an oddly apologetic look on his face, and now she has to handle whatever this is.
She’s beginning to think she really does like being in charge.
-
Henry Loomis spends his night sitting alone on the couch of his mediocre flat, one he shares with a few other Natural History Museum employees, and looking up name-brand clothing in-between episodes of The Dinosaurs. It’s because the series is quite boring, he tells himself, and the narrator has already mispronounced the names of several species.
But it’s oddly unsettling, he realizes, to have thoughts concerning things other than dinosaurs take root in his mind. He’s spent so long spinning in paleontology’s orbit that he’s really forgotten how to think of anything else.
Or anyone else.
He doesn’t know the first thing about anything that isn’t related to dinosaurs or fossils, and he hasn’t forgotten the look on Miss Amari Mari’s face when he told her he had no idea who Miranda Priestly was. She looked at him like he’d just walked over an active dig site.
It was sort of humiliating, to be looked at that way, when he’s so often seen as the smartest person in the room.
So, he makes a decision. After closing out all his tabs containing clothing he most definitely cannot afford on a museum salary, Henry Loomis opens a new window and decides to actually look up Miranda Priestly.
What he finds triggers a long-forgotten memory.
All of his nights he’s spent at museums blend together, whether those nights be here in London or back in New York, before the paleontology division was forced to close. But, looking at the image of a stony-faced, grey-haired, no-nonsense woman in front of him, one stands out.
The first Monday in May, last year, when he left the division after the sun went down, and, mind wandering with (correct) thoughts of losing his job, stumbled upon the Met Gala, where one Miranda Priestly was exiting her car.
Loomis doesn’t use the internet to look up human culture. He frequents paleontology resources, online archives about old dig sites, information about research funding grants. Not spring florals and gaudy, unethical displays of wealth. Certainly not anything modern.
He doesn’t, he swears.
But for the first (and hopefully the last) time in his life, he types “Miranda Priestly Met Gala 2026” into the search bar and hits enter.
He finds exactly what he expects: the older woman in a long red dress, the blue carpet, the hoard of photographers, all things he remembers. He scrolls on, reacquainting himself with last year’s still-hazy memory, when his scrolling is suddenly halted by a new picture.
A picture of Amari Mari, clad in what he’d assumed to be some sort of cone around her neck and black chopsticks in her hair, stares back at him, and Henry realizes that, even across an ocean, on an entirely different continent, it’s been impossible for him to get away from extravagance.
-
It’s been impossible for Amari to get away from men.
Not good, reputable men, mind you, but the sort of annoying FiDi type who want her to spend their money instead of her own. She sees them around Runway, occasionally, whenever she has the misfortune of running into a finance or tech bro from their respective departments, and then is wrapped up into a 10 minute conversation that could’ve been less than 10 seconds had she been able to insult them and go on with her day. She fields questions from oblivious influencers at events, wishing she could just keep things moving instead of having to answer the questions of who is Nigel and where’s Miranda an upwards of twenty times.
In some ways, she counts herself lucky that she has Charlie and Nigel, because they are the furthest from being condescending and narcissistic. It really should not be so hard to find a guy who knows things, but doesn’t gloat about it. Whose knowledge comes naturally but isn’t overbearing or misplaced.
Who, God willing, will let her spend her own money.
Who, maybe, isn’t with her specifically because of who she’s connected to. Who she works for. Who, perhaps, doesn’t know a thing about fashion.
If there was anything Amari learned under her tenure as Miranda’s first assistant, it was that a woman should never be afraid to go after what she wants, or ask for what she wants. No ifs, ands, or buts.
If she can’t get away from men, why shouldn’t she at least have one who isn’t condescending, smarmy, self-obsessed, or using her? She’s fended off her fair share of the above categories, but she’s never chased after one or led one on who wasn’t any of those things. For someone who loves to be in control, to be in charge, she’s surprised the thought has never occurred to her.
Then again, she is obsessed with her job. Her job, all variations of it, is her life. She has little time for anything else, hobbies included.
Maybe she should get one.
She mulls over it for a little while as she forwards a few emails to Miranda and sends some quick reminders to Charlie. What does a healthy woman in her mid-to-late twenties, with an appropriate work-life balance, like to do outside of work?
All roads lead to… the gym.
But first, Vuori. For the appropriate clothes, of course.
-
Henry doesn’t spend money on frivolous things. What he does spend money on are bare necessities. Like the gym.
Well, he considers it a necessity, but one really could call it a hobby. It’s the only time he can turn his brain off from constant thoughts about fossils and species names and what to do about research funding for the next year. In time, he’s come to enjoy it. It keeps him in shape for any upcoming digs or spontaneous expeditions. He considers it to be an essential part of his wellness routine.
It’s a well-deserved escape from work.
Which is why he nearly drops a weight upon seeing Miss Amari Mari, clad in a black tank top and leggings, step into the gym.
She looks sleek. He looks stupid as hell in a purple tank and shorts.
(Look, he spends money on a good gym membership, but not on gym clothes.)
This is now the third time he’s seen this woman, and in a third separate location, too. He thinks he might be going insane.
In a world large enough to house an estimate of tens of thousands of species of dinosaurs, she just happens to be showing up wherever he is. Inside work, outside work, and quite literally outside of work. For the first time in a long time, he’s let himself think about something other than dinosaurs, and the universe seems to have rewarded him by pushing her towards him. Weird, no?
He tries not to dwell on it, and instead refocuses his attention on the weights.
The thing about dinosaur bones and fossils encased in rock is that they can be much heavier than one might expect. Henry knows this, and has ever since he nearly dislocated his shoulder picking up the dorsal plate from a stegosaurus. Therefore, weights are a necessity.
He does not think Miss Mari knows this, because she’s currently trying and failing to act like she’s never seen him before in her life, which is a very difficult task when he’s wearing a bright purple gym set.
He’s not trying to look at her. It’s just that the treadmill she’s occupying faces a wall of mirrors, which he is also facing. Therefore, they can see each other in the reflection.
Well, he can - albeit not very well, as he’s not wearing his glasses. She’s now closing her eyes like she’s trying to meditate. Or make him disappear. Or both.
Henry couldn’t say what she was wearing at the museum the other day - the only thing he remembers was the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor as she stepped away to reprimand someone over the phone while he worked on reattaching that piece of Manty’s tail he’d been scanning earlier that day. Now, he thinks her legs remind him of an Anteavis, long and thin, but still impeccably muscled.
He shakes the thought away and chooses a heavier weight. That should distract him.
For the most part, it does, although his ears still burn in embarrassment when he remembers her scrutinizing gaze as he rattled off what he was wearing. He lets out a heavy sigh, setting the weight down onto his lap and tipping his head upwards.
He must’ve been a touch too loud, because the noise from the treadmill suddenly stops.
“Your tie-dye tank-top is interfering with my activity,” a voice says, and of course, it’s her. And she’s stepping off the treadmill and coming his way.
“What?” Henry says, a bit dumbly. He squints, reaching for his glasses that he’s left under the weight bench.
“It’s too loud,” She continues, and the blurry image of Amari Mari standing above him becomes clearer once he puts his glasses on. She blinks in recognition as the wire frames are pushed up his nose, crossing her arms across her chest. “Oh. Loomis.”
“Miss Mari,” He replies. “I don’t think my shirt is louder than a Parasaurolophus.”
“A what?”
“A Parasaurolophus. It’s the only dinosaur we know with certainty what it sounded like. Around 30 years ago, a team in New Mexico was able to approximate the sound it would have made using computer scans of its skull.” Loomis rattles off. “Sort of like a foghorn, or some sort of siren, which my shirt is… not. It’s quiet.”
She stares at him, her expression unreadable. So much of her is unreadable to him, he realizes, because he doesn’t know much about her at all.
“I was talking about the pattern,” She says, finally. “It’s very… busy.”
Henry has no idea how something such as fabric could be loud or busy. His mouth opens and closes as he flounders, struggling to come up with a response. “What does that mean?” He blurts, clueless, and her cheeks darken.
“It’s distracting,” She clarifies, her voice cool as her eyeline moves over his chest, lingering on the hairs peeking out from the neckline. Amari lifts her chin, eyes locking with his. “Take it off.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Take it off,” Amari shrugs, glaring at him. “It’s a gym. No one will care. But I just can’t have you distracting me from my work with that annoyingly flashy shirt.”
He swallows, looking around at the few other people making use of the equipment around them. Sure enough, they all seem engrossed in their own activities, not sparing anyone else a glance. “Um, okay.”
She smiles at him, although it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good boy,” Amari responds, and he gapes at her as she turns to leave.
-
Amari is not leaving. No, she’s simply getting a glass of water.
It’s not as if she’s winded from the treadmill - she knows she’s in shape due to all the errands Miranda sends her on, the ankle strength she’s acquired from wearing heels all day, every day.
It’s not because of that. She just needs a moment to think.
When she thought of the ideal man to lead on, she hadn’t considered the possibility of him being a nerd. She wasn’t thinking in terms of this aforementioned man being the exact opposite of a jock or a finance bro, but she’s come to realize that’s exactly what she wants.
An unaware nerd for her to boss around. Someone who needs to be told what to do, but who’s still in possession of ample knowledge of his own. Someone who…
Someone who looks shockingly good shirtless?
Amari’s water goes down the wrong pipe as she stares at Dr. Loomis from across the gym. For someone who hides under charity shop jumpers and worn plaid shirts, he’s a surprisingly jacked specimen. She’s not sure why he needs arm muscles nearly the size of her head if he’s, she assumes, just carrying around petri dishes and science journals all day, but… well.
She’s not complaining.
After a few years on set of editorial photoshoots and in the wings of crowded fashion shows, Amari has long been tuned in to the intricacies of the male form, and how good styling could accentuate that. Loomis’s styling is not accentuating his form. It’s only hiding it.
And he’s none the wiser, clearly.
It intrigues her. Perhaps, if he’s open to it, she could give him some advice - she thinks it would be beneficial. Mutually beneficial.
After the show that night at the museum, she googled Loomis. She does this with so many people - just a cursory background check, nothing serious. Miranda used to ask for it, and it’s a habit she’s kept up with since then. It’s during that search that she found out paleontology is dying. Lack of impressions and funding have eliminated entire departments and slashed researching budgets.
It’s a story she knows all too well, especially after what happened at Runway. Paleontology needs a makeover.
She could handle that. More than handle that, really. She could take charge.
So, Amari begins to pack up, donning her Cartier stack (which always sits on her left wrist) after grabbing it from her Goyard (the closest thing resembling a gym bag she’d ever be caught dead with), and marches toward Henry.
In the time it took her to collect her things, he’s moved to one of the treadmills, his bare chest shining with sweat as he picks up his running pace. What he needs to run from, she has no idea.
“Loomis,” She announces herself, sidling up to the treadmill, and he nearly trips, hurrying to press the stop button as he makes a surprised noise.
“Miss Mari,” Loomis coughs, and her nose wrinkles. “Why’d you sneak up on me like that?” He pants, running a stray hand over his beard. She scoffs.
“I think I made my presence clear beforehand,” Amari replies, folding her hands together and straightening her spine. “But, regardless, I have an offer for you.”
“An offer?”
She nods. “I can rehab your image.”
“My… image?” He’s puzzled, clueless. She’ll have to spell this out for him, unfortunately.
“I work in public relations, dealing with crisis and reputational management,” She explains, swallowing thickly as she tries to train her eyes to land anywhere but his chest. What the hell does a paleontologist need a six-pack for? “You are having a crisis.” Amari says, her voice blunt.
“The earth is having a crisis,” Loomis responds, defensive. “If global warming can be slowed down before the clock reaches the moment of irreversible damage to our world, we can all–“
“You can’t do that without funding,” She interrupts, trying not to roll her eyes. She remembers Nigel’s advice. “If you want your field to survive, you need to put your best foot forward to achieve that.” Preferably not in scuffed shoes, her brain adds.
He stares at her, chest heaving. “And you have funding?”
“I can get you some,” Amari responds, her voice brokering no argument. “And a better sense of style.”
Loomis sighs, shaking his head as he mulls over the idea. “Well, what’s in it for you?” He asks, turning his whole body to face her.
Her gaze flutters downward, then back up again. He doesn’t notice. “Personal satisfaction,” She says, finally, tilting her head to the side. Amari pauses. “And a good story for our features editor.”
“Deal.”
To: Amari Mari [email protected]
From: LOOMIS, Henry [email protected]
Subject: Meeting
Miss Mari,
I hope your return flight to New York was enjoyable. I regret to inform you that I do work in London full time - my last position in the paleontology department of New York’s Natural History Museum was eliminated last year. As such I no longer live there.
However, I am planning to attend ICGP in June, which brings together leading researchers in my department to share journals and other publications relating to the study of paleontology and geosciences. If this conference interests you and your editor, I can reach out to the board and secure you both a pass - although I believe you will still have to pay.
If not, hopefully we can still plan to meet the first weekend in June. I will be there for four days, two of which will be dedicated to the conference. I can dedicate the other two to you and the runway’s funding plans, if you would like.
I am sorry I do not have an effective text number for you to contact. I hope e-mail is sufficient enough for your tastes.
Best regards,
Henry Loomis, Ph.D.
Postdoctoral Merit Researcher, Collections
Specialisms: Macropaleontology, macroevolution, dinosaurs, systematics, taxonomy
London Museum of Natural History, Cromwell Road, London SW7 5BD
-
To: LOOMIS, Henry [email protected]
From: Amari Mari [email protected]
Subject: RE: Meeting
Loomis,
That’s acceptable.
A
Amari Mari
Public Relations Manager, Runway Magazine
Elias-Clarke Publications, 1325 Avenue of the Americas, New York 10019