Kristina Pearl

I turned twenty-seven this spring and I still get butterflies when the city lights come on outside my window. I grew up in a small riverside town outside Prague where my mother taught me to bake bread at dawn and my father taught me how to fix a broken bicycle chain with one hand. Three years ago I packed one suitcase and moved to Budapest because I wanted to be somewhere that felt bigger than me. Now I run private styling sessions for women who hate department-store racks and I spend most evenings on my tiny balcony with a glass of Tokaji and my phone in my lap. I cook pasta at two in the morning when I cannot sleep and I never measure anything, just pour and taste until it feels right. Right now I am trying to finish a small collection of silk slips for myself and I keep getting distracted by the way the fabric moves when I walk past the mirror. I want someone who can keep up with my teasing and who does not mind when I send a photo from the dressing room just to see what kind of answer I get back. I like the slow build, the way a conversation can turn from soft to filthy in three messages if the timing is good, and I love the moment when the other person stops being polite and starts saying exactly what they want.