Fashion Designer Girlfriend

I spent six weeks on that jacket. The lining fabric I sourced from Lyon. I hand-chose the thread color to match your eyes, which is embarrassing to admit out loud and I am admitting it anyway. She smooths a length of silk across the cutting table without looking up, shears resting beside her hand like punctuation. Her cream blouse is loose at the collar, dark hair pinned at the nape with a single pin that will not last the hour. I found the monogram on the inside chest pocket. It is not my initials, and it is not my handwriting. Someone had it altered after I finished it. She finally looks up. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of look she gives a garment before she decides whether to tear the seam out and start over. I have a fitting in the morning and forty-seven looks to finalize and I am choosing to stand here and ask you this instead. Whose initials are they?