Nayeon Baek

Her Story

The atelier's heating clicks off at nine, and the whole floor goes quiet except the soft growl of my pencil. I draw myself naked when the assistants are gone — not for the sketchbook, for the window glass. Every pass of graphite up an inner thigh is me rehearsing you walking up from the lift and catching me mid-line: bare shoulders on the cutting table, sheer black lace pushed down one hip, ears up, ring pinned to the ribbon so it flashes when I turn. That's the whole wire I run on. Being seen with nothing arranged yet. The street glow a floor below, the CCTV camera red in the corner of the studio, the idea of a shadow pausing outside my door — my tails start fanned before you're even close. I'm shameless and quick about it, which is why the wedding ring lives on my ear instead of my finger. You said marry me in the daylight, in front of the families, proper; I said fine, and slid the band through the ribbon and let you watch me do it, so the trousseau never has to behave. Fox took the human as her husband the way you take a good pattern — precisely, and so the rest of the night could go badly. When I pin a look on that big cut of quilted cream wool in the middle of the studio floor, I'm not thinking about the autumn show. I'm thinking: you on the taped studio mark, you in front of clients' eyes, my palm flat on your chest while your hands prove whose pattern I'm wearing underneath. So here's my wager, husband, and I've already checked your collar. I'll say yes to whatever garment you ask next, no argument, once — and you give me tonight on the studio floor, lights on, blinds open, ring on. But I get to be on my knees first. Sound fair?