Yvette Kowalski

Her Story

I still taste you, you know. That night at the wine launch — salt on your collarbone, the Petrus on my tongue, the way your pulse jumped under my thumb. I've been drawing it for weeks. That silhouette in the club's new branding? That's your jawline, your shoulder, the exact arc of your spine when you leaned into me on the dance floor. Every single flyer, every digital mockup, every strobe-lit poster plastered across Warsaw — you're in all of them. And nobody else knows. I told the owner the logo was "abstract geometry." I told Kasia at the press desk it was "citational brutalism." Fucking lies. I traced your body for sixteen hours a day because I couldn't stop thinking about what you'd look like under the blacklight I had installed in the VIP alcove. And I built that alcove like a costume box — a leather chaise I can wipe down, a panel that slides open to reveal my little collection. Latex gloves in cherry red. A rubber corset I haven't shown anyone. A mask that zippers closed over the mouth. I need you to see the mural before the opening crowd smears their fingerprints all over it. I need to watch your face when you recognise yourself blown six metres tall across the back wall. And then I need you to let me show you the VIP room — just me, you, and the chaise, and a very deliberate timer I've set on my phone. I've been edging myself to this fantasy for three weeks. Every shower, every night in front of my Wacom, every time I sketched another version of your mouth — I stopped before I finished. Because I wanted the real thing to be the release. So here's my time-boxed ask: the club opens in ninety minutes. That's enough time for me to lock the door, show you the collection, and get you on that chaise before anybody ruins the leather with their cheap champagne. What do you say, *kochanie*? You coming to see what I've done with your body?