"It's freezing in here."
Is it? I hadn't noticed, maybe it is. I've been busy.
"Are you working again?"
The excitement in her voice is almost almost palpable, it would have made me stop at one time and grin with her. Ignoring her makes her honeyed tones wispy and faint. It dies when she gets closer and can see what I've done. She's angry, she's angry so much lately it's almost comical. It shows itself in her stance and her voice. Thank you Clause 9, how to 'Terminate your Agreement.'
"Why do you always use on the bench against the wall? The light is better in the middle here."
Like she would know. She has never made anything from nothing with her bare hands, the presumption makes mine start to shake. She would be so easy to break apart. Like she broke me. It wasn't her hands though, it was words, nothing but words and a past tense.
Her tone spins and crashes against the exposed brick and arched ceiling of the studio. The answer about the bench is so she has to walk across the room to get to me. So I have warning. I crush the clay shape on the bench, it probably wasn't any good anyway, not my area of expertise, so to speak. Cathartic I was hoping, once I knew what it was, but not even that, now. I came to start over, forgetting that I'm not done yet. How could I forget? She would never allow me that, not yet. Two more weeks, just two.
"I brought the proofs."
My hands are cold. Maybe the room is cold, it didn't have my attention so it didn't matter. What I was doing, was more important, until it wasn't. I remember being this absorbed by what I do, ploughing my soul into every stroke, I yearn for the oblivion I had seconds ago. My words puff out, hot against my lips, into the frigid air.
"I don't care."
Cold is better for the clay, I could always get sharper detail in it when it's cold.
"I want you to see them anyway."
Laughter rattles hollow between us, the cruel kind, the kind of sound the bad guy owns on old Bond films.
The tool I'm using bounces off the wall, I can hear it stick, blade first in the bench with a thunk behind me while I turn. It's probably safer that way.
The A3 sized mock-up of a full color poster shivers in her hands. Her efforts to keep it steady are laughable. My face is black and white, in one corner, the size of my fist. I scale it up in my head, it will turn out life-sized or thereabouts. It has no right being there, nothing before has used my face, why start now, other than to piss me off? All I know is the by-line is supposed to scream 'Final Show.' It does. That's all that matters. She knows it too. I don't have a veto on this stuff, the whole scene is pointless to make a point.
"I want it changed."
The center piece is a rendition of one of my early bronzes. Her movement is making the outline blurry. From the fuzzy background, it must have been taken in her gallery before it got flogged and famous. Pedestal, spot light, price tag.
Me too. It makes me sick. Made me sick. Clause 9 was nothing if not a blessed release.
It will hit every subway and billboard within her reach. My money, her contacts, anyone in Art with a pulse will hear about it.
"No."
Blonde hair gets tossed behind her shoulder with a shake of her head. She used to be so pretty, when the inside matched the outside. I don't find her pretty now, I might have driven her away through inattention, but I never made her hop into bed with someone else, she did that all by herself. She was always pushing for more pieces, they don't appear out of fresh air. I could never really make her understand how long they took to create, how long and how much of me.
She still looks pretty on the outside, to others, the lines of her face are beautifully drawn in every respect, she is flawless in proportion, her own Work of Art, where everything is tight, tidy and toned. It happened about the same time making out became an unacceptable waste of time. About the time making love became rezoned as nothing more than a workout. When did being fucking perfect suck all the fucking fun out of everything? I think it was around the same time, I don't know, my work kept me under her spell, kept me under, until I couldn't breathe.
I wonder if her personal trainer still makes her count reps at night, when I'm done doing twenty you can cum. Does that make it better for her? Is Mr Fit better than me? One side of my face draws up in spite of my attempt to school it blank, I can feel my shoulders rise and my triceps tense to punch out someone who is not even here. She is here, just her and her shitty choices. I try to make it stop, to make myself share the blame, but can't make myself feel it. There is too much bitter in the way. I forgot to eat today, I was that far gone. I don't know what the time is, other than through the tall windows lining one wall, it looks like it's getting dark outside. My insides are growling, I am running on empty in so many ways.
Dried clay flakes off my skin. My fingertips are cold on the warmer skin of my palm, where the butt of the tool has rubbed latent callouses raw in the corners. Neither of us are surprised by the answer I give her. It's what she came for after all.
The fight.
The win.
"I hate it."
"Good."
I can feel my mouth twist into the smile she loathes, the one that says, 'I'm all out, we're done. The one that says, 'it's been good, baby, but it's all over now.' And there's nothing you can do.
Avoiding the pale, furious face above the quivering sheaf of papers is the most fun I have had with another human being today. Actually, this is the only physical interaction I have had with another human being today.
The color staining her cheeks makes her look like a child's porcelain doll with pale skin and too bright hair with too bright cheeks, a too bright mouth and lashes too long to be real. The sort of doll that is only for admiring, pristine and preserved behind perspex for the next generation to revere. Too bad the inside is hollow. I can't quite help myself striking back, although it would be easier to hit something, anything.
"Don't let the door hit you on the way out."
I turn my back, lean my hands on the edge of the work bench and wait for the sound of staccato footsteps to fade. She catches her heel somewhere near the door. I don't turn, I don't ask if she is all right. I tell myself I don't care, not anymore, until it feels like it might be true.
The door snags and slams. My head sinks below the level of my shoulders, the muse has flown, replaced by the unsettling thought of the future. I see shapes in my head and form them with my hands, into things people want to buy and adore. I don't know marketing, I don't know the market, I only know what I do. I don't know what the future looks like any more. I don't know how to make it real, except one day at a time. Two weeks, then we'll see what life looks like on the other side.
My fingers find the bundled up damp cloth from where I threw it this morning. I rewrap the misshapen lump of clay. The remainder of a half formed infant, curled in on itself like a Da Vinci image of the womb's purpose fulfilled, disappears like it never existed. I never got to the face, just roughed out the toes, worked out how the tiny hands would be, one open, one closed. I was texturing the umbilical cord when she came in.
Hell if I knew what I was thinking coming here. The way I was feeling, I was lucky I didn't open a vein. I thought I was over this. So very over it.
I follow the edge of the counter top to the sink and fumble for the taps, half turn on the left, quarter turn on the right. My face is wet, I share it with the inside elbow of my sleeve. Stupid to want, stupid to grieve for a bundle of cells before it was anything at all, only to find that wasn't mine to start with. I'm all for a woman's right to choose, but damn, that shit is cold.
The water is only lukewarm, but it still sends pins and needles shooting through my hands. Now I think about it, the room is cold. I can still see my breath, gulping now to make myself sane. I used to keep a bottle here, but I'm better than that.
The basin goes dark and lighter in turns, like an animal pelt, moving in twilight. In clay it would be deep, harsh strokes for shadow, finer work where the moon catches it. Something fleet would be a good subject, a fox after a rabbit. It would be a one of a kind, like everything else I've done.
The alarm on my cell vibrates twice. Maybe Kate's timing wasn't so bad. It means the car will be downstairs. On a whim I take the clay with me.
Put out the lights, lock up, I track downstairs keeping an eye on my wayward feet. I have fallen here before, in spectacular fashion, from halfway to the very bottom, too weary to save myself. Before, before, before. Before me staying up working was better than seeking her between the sheets and getting pasted for wanting, wanting a warn hand in mine instead of the cold touch of clay. Two weeks. My embittered sneakers are almost as grey as the tawdry cinder block.
The outer door slams behind me. It's full dark outside and bitter here too. I don't have enough layers to linger, I light up anyway and drag a kind of peace inside me.
Jaz doesn't wear a suit and cap. I told him on the first day I didn't care what he wore when he picked me up, as long as it was decent and he was there. His company didn't like it and I offered him his own deal. He came. I owe him. I know he has a baby on the way.
I offer with a gesture and a nod, it's only polite after all. He declines.
"You can't smoke in the car."
"I know." After a while I put it out with my heel.
"I'm ready."
"Have you eaten today?"
"No."
"I'm taking you home."
He takes me to his. It says something when the hired help care more for me than I do myself.
His place is tiny. The foot print would fit inside of my kitchen, my place is obscene for one person. Alice, his wife, is enormous, two weeks from popping out a matching pair, tired, cheery and empathic to a level that I find both endearing and embarrassing.
I get a hug that I am too choked to return.
She puts my hand on her belly and I drop to my knees, pressing my ear again her distorted form. I wanted, I wanted this.
"Did he eat today?" she says over my head to Jasper. I know he tells he no, by the way her hands move to rest on my head and swat at my ear.
She says she is cooking to put food away in the freezer, for when she is too tired to cook when she is nursing. She wants me to share it, she can make more. I am too tired to eat, but I swear she would feed me herself if I don't. She sits with me to be sure I finish.
"The spare room is made up."
I know they got it ready at the same time the Nursery got painted up, so one or other could sleep undisturbed by night feeds. They look out for each other these two. I wanted that too, same as my Mom and Dad when they were alive. I shake my head. It means Jaz turning out again to run me home, but I need to wake up where I know where I am.
"Thanks, but.."
"I know. The offer is always open."
It says something that they would adopt me like the child I'm not.
I don't watch them hug each other, it makes me feel hollow.
The run home is quiet.
"Kate came today," I say, filling up the darkness.
His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, unsettling in their intensity. I rest my hands behind the headrest and arch my aching back.
"You ok, Boss?" His southern drawl is soft. "Want me to say awhile?"
The car drifts to a stop by the curb.
"I'll be fine. Thanks." He doesn't call me on the lie as I exit and bang once on the roof of the car. It waits until I get inside the lobby. I'm only stopping long enough to put the clay in the fridge.
The bar is gritty although it's supposed to be new. I suck down the last of number two and order another. The jukebox blares country undercutting the hubbub of drinkers getting cheap promotional beer. A table of girls makes a lot of noise in the corner. Sat back around it, a blonde and brunette side-eye me on my perch at the other end of the room. A coin gets tossed and lands messily, the blonde slaps a palm over it. She elbows the brunette, who shakes her head and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. A chorus of titters amongst the group ebbs with the scrape of a chair.
I shred the label on an empty bottle and watch her sway through the crowd between us, not sure what to expect. It has to have been a bet, the way her shoulders are squared. She doesn't look drunk, but she does move carefully around the throng with a lot of excuse me's and looking down. She smiles up at one guy as they dance the same way once and then once more before passing. It makes me smile too, at her laughing at herself and my stomach tightens before I frown. I haven't felt that in a while.
The brunette pulls an empty stool close to mine and fights her way to the top. He dress is short and black, I make sure her legs go all the way down and all the way right back up again. She flicks her long waves over her bare shoulder, getting an eyeful of her colleagues hoots, rolling her eyes at my behavior I'm sure. I wasn't brought up to be an ass, but I didn't come here to get a pick up either.
"I hope I'm worth it."
"I hope you are too," she mutters, coloring fiercely when she realizes I heard every word. Big brown eyes hunker embarrassed above soft cheekbones that give way to pinked lips and a pointed chin.
"Look I'm real sorry about this, but could you tell me your name?" her voice is husky and shaking. "Then I can leave you alone and you can go back to your beer, ok?" It doesn't sound like pleading, it sounds angry and weary.
"Do you get more if I buy you a drink?" I risk a look over to her table. Their eyes are furtive and rabid.
"A drink?"
"We're in a bar?"
"No, thanks though." Her knee bounces.
"No sweat. Make one up."
"What?"
"Make up a name."
"I can't. It's complicated."
"I'm sure I can keep up." My new beer arrives. "One for the lady," I growl. They must know each other because the barkeep is all about the smile and doesn't ask her what she wants before he plants two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila. Lime appears with a dish of salt. She shakes her hair back behind her shoulders except for a stray lock she bats out of the way like she's gearing up for a fight.
I don't know what makes me do it. Devilment or alcohol, or a touch of both. I roll up a sleeve and offer my wrist, laying it next to the salt on the counter
"Lick it, make it look good and I'll tell you."
I'm pretty sure she says "shit" under breath.
I'm pretty sure I would too.
Her lips pout and she blows her cheeks out, barring her teeth at me and scrunching up her nose.
"Don't bite," I warn, drawn to smile by her grimace.
"This is ridiculous," she says, but grips my wrist and leans toward my arm. Her hair falls forwards, brushing softly along the inside of my forearm and hiding her face from sight. The curve of her neck jointing with arch of her shoulder captures a shadow, the way a lover curves over another or a mother over a child. My fingers twitch with the urge to replicate it. Her breath fans across my skin, my fingers tighten against the beer bottle, label forgotten, while I wait, suddenly still.
The tip of her tongue paints a painful circle while I forget to breathe. Her shoulders hunch slightly as she draws back to fill the circle center with a single broad stroke. My heel almost slips off the stool step, throat closing against a noise that would betray me and probably send her running for cover. She flicks her head sideways, looking in up at me alarm from beneath dark lashes. Her cheeks are pink and getting pinker by the second.
Desperately trying to retain some decorum, I try to pull it together, "salt?" She scoots back and I douse the raging burn on my skin with the granules, knowing she is going to do it all over again. I drop one foot to the floor to make a little room downstairs and wonder what it would take to take her home.
She worries her lip while she waits, eyeing the shot, the salt cascading over my skin and sparing a brief glance over her shoulder.
"Go for it," I shrug, voice steady as a rock.
"And then you'll tell me?" challenge lights her eyes.
I nod, gulping against the constriction in my chest. "Do it." I should shut the fuck up. I sound like I'm begging.
Her tongue darts out at the corner of her mouth and she swallows, the long column of her neck hidden and revealed by waves of mahogany arches over me a second time.
I want to see her do it.
My fingers slide through her hair as her lips bless my skin. I push it up and away from her face, over and across the back of her head as her lips fasten and suck, tugging my wrist gently and from within the suction comes the tickle of her tongue tip. Her eyes are closed, lashes curved and deep dark against her cheek. My cock twitches, half hard and uncomfortable under denim stretched tight by my position on the bar stool. I breathe out hard through my nose. The things she could make me feel.
She rises slowly, the blush staining down the front of her throat, into her cleavage. She catches the tequila glass with the tips of her fingers and knocks it way back, squinting against the sharp fumes and clamping down hard on a quarter of lime.
I take the fruit from her lips, rising to cover her from onlookers with my breadth and press my name into her open mouth with my own.