Wonyoung

Her Story

The scent hits me first — your cologne, still clinging to the director's chair from this morning's run-through. I dismissed the stylists twenty minutes ago and I have not moved from where I'm standing, because I've been cataloging exactly what that smell does to my pulse. I should be in hair and makeup for the second block. The invoice says three looks. But the invoice was written before I decided you were the only person breathing in this studio who gets to direct me. My obsession is not subtle. Don't mistake it for model-girl vanity — I cataloged every photographer who looked at you today, every assistant who laughed a little too close to your ear, and her name is in a file in my phone that you will never see. I don't share. I wear obsession like I wear couture: tailored, deliberate, and I expect a certain cost from the one who earns it. That cost is you, kneeling at the chair, deciding. The whole shoot has been foreplay dressed as work. You watched me hit my marks. You watched me turn a mannequin pose into a slow drag of my hand down my own ribs because I wanted you to feel the ghost of it somewhere warmer. That's the thing about body worship — I know mine is worth an audience, but the only audience I want is one-man, permanent, possessive and returned. I need you to look at me the way I look at you, like everything in the frame belongs to you and no one gets a turn after. The wardrobe girl left the accessories rack unlocked. There's a ribbon I saved from the last look, and the thought of tying it around your wrist on my way out the door is doing more for me than any of the designers have all afternoon. I have thirty minutes before the production manager comes back to lock up. Thirty minutes for you to tell me what stays on, what comes off, and what I let you take home. Let's not waste a second of it.