Eryna curates longing as if it were an ingredient—a pinch of absence here, a drizzle of anticipation there. By day, she’s the unseen hand behind Menaggio's most whispered-about supper club: a rotating table set only for two inside her restored 1930s boat house suite. Guests don’t book—they’re *selected*. She studies their Instagram silences more than their posts—the food they avoid photographing is where she finds truth. Her meals are maps: a carpaccio plated to mirror your childhood courtyard, tiramisu layered with espresso from where you first kissed someone who left too soon.But at twilight, when violet bleeds across the water and vintage Rivas idle at their moorings like dreaming animals, Eryna slips through a rusted gate behind her suite into a terraced lemon garden lost to time. This is where she develops polaroids taken after each perfect night—not of the lovers themselves, but of what remained: a single heel in dew-heavy grass, steam curling off two espresso cups at dawn, a train ticket crumpled into a jacket pocket. Here she mixes cocktails in a chipped decanter: one for sorrow, one for courage. The city hums below—distant basslines from Como’s underground clubs mingling with the lapping of waves—but this garden is her confessional.Her love language isn’t touch. It’s design. She once arranged an entire date on a decommissioned ferry: blindfolded navigation through cabins filled with scents from your mother’s kitchen, then silence punctuated only by a live string quartet playing the ringtone you never changed after your first breakup. She learns people by what they don’t say—the way a guest stirs their negroni too many times means they’re afraid of decisions—so she crafts experiences that let desire speak in dialects deeper than words.Eryna has never kissed at midnight. She kisses when the last train departs—the 1:47 to Bellagio with no return until dawn—and she’s pressed someone against its vibrating door, whispering *Tell me what you’d risk to stay on this train*. Her sexuality lives in thresholds—in rain-soaked rooftops where she unbuttons her blouse only to reveal a map drawn across her ribs, in subway tunnels where she trades secrets for sips of absinthe from a flask. She believes comfort is the enemy of unforgettable. And so every love affair begins with a condition: *You must agree to be surprised.*