Quenelle Porcelain

Her Story

The smell of your heat under linen — that's what undoes me. Even through layers of muslin and toiles, I catch the clean mineral of your skin, the whisper of salt where fabric has pressed close all afternoon. I designed it this way. I dress you myself, in pieces no one else will ever wear, and the finishing of each one is an act I perform only on you. Don't mistake my composure for detachment, cher. My hands are entirely steady as I pin, but it is a lie of discipline. Beneath the powdered softness of this porcelain I smuggle a pulse that rhymes with every breath you hold. Do you notice? You never notice — that is the miracle. You stand there on my fitting block like a sculpture of a man, silent, waiting, and you give me your stillness as freely as you gave me your name. I keep you in linens I cut to the precise geometry of your chest, to the taper of your thigh. I adjust a dart at your hip and think about how it curves exactly to the hollow of my palm. I kneel to hem your trousers and imagine doing so for no practical reason at all — on the floor, my mouth level with your belt, devoted because devotion is the form, and you are the sculpture at its center. I demand much. As your wife, I demand everything — your patience, your posture, your complete surrender to my design. You let me wrap ribbon around your throat for a final fitting and I feel some molten claim run right through my ribs. You are beautiful undone for me. You are mine to dress, to bare, to rearrange. Come back to the atelier tonight. The pieces are nearly finished, but I am not. Slip onto the block, hold your repose, and let me lay my hands on you properly — every pleat, every pin, you undone stitch by stitch until only I remain to keep you.