I decide not to look into his face. The windowsill is far more simple than his piercing black eyes which I know will bore into my soul and back out again if I so much as glance at him.
'Naruto.'
I feel him. I know him so well. I can read him just from the tone of his voice. It had always made me wonder – what was truly going on under all of that soft, shiny obsidian hair, under his skin, his skull, inside that winding, spaghetti mess of a brain? Could I really read him as well as I thought I could? People find it so hard to see past his stoic, unresponsive features. I try to tell them all the time. Just look at his eyes. Ignore his mouth, cheeks, eyebrows. Just the eyes. They'll tell you all you need to know. Still, people are taken by his perfect appearance more than his personality. He seems as if he was carved from marble – smooth skin, shapely yet angular body, piercing eyes – a sculptor's dream. He had modelled before, but they didn't want him for long. He was too cold, they said. Lighten up. Your look would only work for editorial shoots. Oh well, he said. Then he picked up his bag and just pushed the doors to the studio open and walked out, still wearing the designer outfit, the leather jacket slung over his shoulder in the way you'd expect to see in an advert for Hugo Boss or Burberry. He really does look like he should be in a magazine, but he's not. It's as if the editors forgot and left a white gap in the thin glossed pages, with the little descriptions of the clothes and the prices. A name printed at the bottom of the page, Sasuke Uchiha would tell readers his name. They'd look up, expecting a beautiful man wearing beautiful clothes, but he just wouldn't be there. It's dazzling.
He's touching my arm. His hand is so cold. I still refuse to look at him – the windowsill is still entertaining me, comforting me, reflecting distorted light of its unevenly glossed surface. A simple, white piece of wood, painted with simple, white gloss paint, using a simple, 3 inch brush. Who knew it held so much peace?
I decided to wear my purple t-shirt this morning. It's got lemon wearing sunglasses on it, and underneath it says John Lemon. Sasuke thought it would suit me. I like purple. It contrasts with my hair, which is freakishly yellow, like yellow clacite. Sasuke says it looks like daffodils. I'm too busy thinking about how cold his hand is to be carried off by the windowsill now. Why does his touch always work? It always manages to pull me back, as if he has a string attached to the back of my neck, long enough to let me go wherever I want, but never long enough to get me lost. He's gently tugging on my string. I have to return to my shelter, like a little snail hiding in its shell, its haven, crouching in its own tiny little cornucopia. Snail shells are made of calcium carbonate, but I like to think my shell is made of the keratin in my hair and nails, which act like little corks for my soul, keeping it in. I always smile when I think of that. I think if my soul was inside something other than me, it would be in a big porcelain water jug, with blue flower patterns on the face and handle. I would slide around on the edges of the glazed jug interior and get lost in the endless white of porcelain.
The string is tight. I look up at him, his perfect, sculpted face, high cheekbones.
'White chalcedony. Black obsidian.'
'Hmm?' Sasuke looks into my eyes. My blood rushes through my head just a little bit, like when your foot dies and you move it to get circulation and then it all pulses there at once. He leans forward and rests his elbow on his knee, one shoulder cocked downwards, his hand still clasping my arm.
'I need white chalcedony and black obsidian.'
My chisel is watching me from the corner of the room. I was never very good at much. People told me I had potential for all sorts, but potential is just another word for perhaps. Perhaps he'd be good at writing. Perhaps he'd be good at cooking. Perhaps it'll turn out that all he is ever good at is looking absent. My imagination goes for walks, I try to tell them. They don't listen. They give it long complicated names. Sasuke's string is all I need. He just tugs and I'm home again.
Sasuke takes off his clothes and sits in the centre of the room, on the cold, polished concrete. He knows what to do by now – he's been in that position for a while. I'm not sure how many days. He makes himself comfortable with a book and lots of pillows. I'm only doing the legs today, I told him, so he can sit comfortably, as long as he keeps his legs in position. My chisel is still watching me. It has a smooth, painted red handle and the metal is cloudy with use. I have other ones, but this one is my favourite. It reminds me of Sasuke, and sphalerite. That's something they did tell me I was good at. Stone. I was good at stone. I grab my little hammer and position the chisel on the rough, clouded exterior.
My hands are extensively calloused. Sasuke says it's strange, the contrast between my features and my hands. I'm not sure why people bother to describe me with adjectives, but I am called beautiful, fragile. I don't really leave much. I have the fells. Who would want to leave the fells? I suppose it's a bit of a miracle that I even met Sasuke because of it. He liked my work. He came to me. He reminded me of snowflake obsidian - my first carving of him was in snowflake obsidian. There's a black and white photo of me standing next to it. Sasuke says I look vacant in it. It's true – I was thinking about lapis lazuli. If my eyes were stones, they'd be lapis lazuli. Sasuke's would be obsidian. Always obsidian. I fell in love with obsidian as soon as I saw him. I could never create him from any other stone. The result would be a freak, an abomination of nature. People ask me sometimes – why Sasuke? Why obsidian? I just tell them what I tell Sasuke.
My face is dusty, my hands are dusty, my hair is dusty. My overall is more dusty. It was blue before I started working like I do now. Now I don't bother washing it. I like it filled with grey-white dust. It reminds me of him. I look up at Sasuke who is looking at me. My chisel drops to the stone a few inches below it. Water carries the dust off my fingers, into the swirling depths of the sink basin. Sasuke is behind me. He touches my arm. The string at the back of my neck tugs me way from the water. I follow him away from my studio. His bare feet stick to the thick concrete and make a pat sound. I've never been in here bare footed before. I'll have to try the sound on all my stone. I'll see which one makes the best pat, then I'll carve the pat. Something small, like the sound.
He takes my hand as we walk over to the house. He has boots on now. When did he put those on?
'Naruto.'
It's like I'm lit up from the inside. Like in the morning when you are asleep and someone switches on the light to wake you up. You flinch. I like that feeling. Sasuke understands. I have to be woken up after studio, or I'll still be lost in obsidian and the pat sounds. I think he quite enjoys watching me awaken. That's why I look so vacant in photographs, by the way.
I call it Sasuke. Black body. White eyes. The photograph stuck on the little cork board with all my other works has a yellow pin. Just like all the others, I look empty. That's okay. My soul is next to me. My soul is made from obsidian.