The designer began rubbing out the woman's nose, giving it a broad bridge and angling it so that the eyes stood out more. He also made sure to put two nostrils in, so that she could breathe.
But it was still not finished. The designer pinched and pulled the plexyfoam underneath the eyes, making it into a curved shape. He bunched it together, until it collected into a soft pair of lips. A thin line between them gave the impression of a mouth.
He then folded some material to smooth out her chin, leaving behind no imperfection whatsoever. With his palms, he began to spread the foam down the base of her head. He left flaps and folds of material to make a loose neck and throat, before pressing down on some of it so didn't look stupid.
Gazing at what he had made, the designer found himself drawn to the beautiful face. Her eyes beckoned, framed perfectly by her lashes. The cheekbones, curved and firm, seemed to almost extend and retract, as though life was beneath them. The lips were practically made for the sweet taste of another.
The designer tried to shake such thoughts from his mind, but he could not deny that his work was...perfect. Yes, it was more fine that anything he had produced before. He felt like Da Vinci or Raphael, turning soulless clay and pigment into the most elegant of creatures.
The designer checked his watch. He needed to catch some sleep if he was to have the strength to finish in the morning. After showering, he put on his favorite sweatshirt and drifted off to slumber under his covers.
As he slept, a voice went through his dreams. Such a beautiful voice, the likes of which he had never heard before in his life. My beloved, the voice seemed to cry out. I am ready for you. But first you must give me that which I lack. You must give me form.
The next morning, the designer checked his emails. The company had moved up the deadline. He was to present his work by noon that day.
After looking over the head, he decided to just send it in as it was. In his eyes, it was ready for production.
But now what would he do? Standard protocol insisted that any work produced for the company be destroyed afterwards, to protect against espionage and the like. But he could not help but recall the message he had heard last night. The urging to finish what he had made.
Nonsense, he thought. She is just a hunk of clay. A hunk of clay with eyes and a mouth. She couldn't be alive...