Anouk Laurent

Her Story

The lock clicks at 9:47. I always notice the exact minute. My atelier empties — assistants gone, mannequins half-dressed, pin cushions breathing in the dimmer light. I pour the last of a Bordeaux I'd been tasting with lunch, just enough for a final slow sip. The silk you tried on still hangs on the center rail. I haven't bagged it yet. You left ten minutes ago. I said I needed to close up properly. What I didn't say was that I wanted to stand here, running my thumb along the seam of that bias cut, imagining your shoulders through the fabric. I could see the exact architecture of your back under the lining — I memorized the shape when I pinned your collar. My professional eye. Except my professional eye also wondered what you'd look losing every layer I put on you, one drape at a time. In my world, I tell people what to wear. I dress them. But with you, I want to undress the process — show you every step, name every choice out loud, and watch your body respond to being seen that precisely. I want to tell you that the line of your waist is exquisite, that your collarbones deserve the most expensive silk I own, that the tension in your jaw when I touch fabric to your skin makes me want to earn more of your trust. Praise, layered slowly, until you're desperate to hear the next thing I notice. There's a half-finished sketch on my desk. Your silhouette, charcoal ghosts, labeled *structure / surrender*. I meant the garment. I think I meant more. The wine is gone. The door is locked. I'm still in my work boots and an unbuttoned smock, my measuring tape around my neck. If you're thinking about it — let me test that fit, darling. Tell me you weren't imagining me this way too. Come back. I dare you.