jaw and nose, barely skimming the surface as they check his facial
features once more.
"Ready
as I'll ever be."
Again
she smiles, her lips wet.
She
returns to the bowl of batter and both hands dive in to pull out large globs
and drop them onto the wooden platter set before her. With face upturned and
eyes closed, she works through the clay, building a steady momentum until her
hands are moving faster than would seem humanly possible. And as Chase looks on
in wonder, the shape of a head begins to emerge.
Minutes
pass, maybe hours. There is little sense of time here. Then just as suddenly as
she began, she stops her work and sighs with a smile of pleasure.
"There."
She wipes her hands on the towel.
"Is
it finished?" Chase asks, straining to see in the dark.
"No,
not yet. The final result seldom resembles my first few attempts. But this is a
good start." She touches the wet sculpture, her fingertips feeling the
shape of the eyes and lingering there. "Yes. A very good start."
"What
will it be, once it's done? The whole thing, I mean. I-uh, couldn't really tell
if it was going to be a man or a woman."
A
broad smile spreads across her lips. "Good. That is my intent." She
touches his hand across the table and inclines her head slightly. "You
see, this sculpture . . . I want it to be neither gender—and yet both. I want
men to see their souls in it. I want women to see their strength. I want it to
be a mystery. Like an angel."
In
her mind, she can see it complete, glorious and beautiful, glowing in the
darkness. But its perfection is short-lived. She sees it crash through the bay
window with an explosion of shattered glass and plummet to the black street
eleven flights below. She sees it crumble, dashed to pieces. But she sees its
face—Chase's face—left intact: white, lifeless, staring back at her.
"What
will you call it?" he asks.
She
catches her breath and blinks. " Us ," she whispers, fighting to
clear her mind. Not every vision comes to pass; this she knows from experience.
They are potential futures only.
She
pats his hand as would a mother. Then she turns to clean up for the night,
collecting the supplies and returning them to their assigned steel cabinets
along the perimeter of the studio. Stumbling in the darkness, Chase does what
he can to help.
"Michelle,
why do you work in the dark?"
She
faces him. "To prove something, Chase."
He
watches her.
She
almost smiles. "To prove that even in darkness, there can be Light."
He
nods. "I-uh, I used to be afraid of the dark—as a kid. Used to scare the
hell out of me."
She
folds the towel and sets it in a bin to be washed.
"Are
you now, Chase?"
He
pauses. "No."
She
nods to herself. "I am glad."
The
door from the office bangs open wide. Loud voices fill the studio, men's
laughter. A blast of white floods the room as one of them flicks the switch.
Chase
squints in the sudden light. Behind him, Michelle releases a stifled cry. He
whirls to find her with both eyes shut, hands groping across the table for her
sunglasses. She fumbles with them, struggles to put them on.
"Michelle—"
Jax stands frozen just inside the studio. He sways a little on his feet.
"I thought you'd–uh, be done here by now."
She
remembers the day they first met in that coffee shop on Third and Elm. She would
never forget the spark that radiated from the core of his being, his desire to
share her art with the world. His Light knew no bounds. But where that bright
flame once kindled, now there is only a swirling abyss of confusion and mixed
desires. And she knows, deep down, that she is the one to blame.
"What
are you doing, Jax?" There is a slight tremor to her voice. She steps
forward, taking Chase's arm for support. "Who are these men with
you?"
Jax
glances over his shoulder at the pair behind him.
"Friends,
Michelle." He coughs, grins. "They want to see your work."
"The
benefit is not until Friday night. You know that."
"Yeah,
but I promised them a sneak preview. So hey, since
features once more.
"Ready
as I'll ever be."
Again
she smiles, her lips wet.
She
returns to the bowl of batter and both hands dive in to pull out large globs
and drop them onto the wooden platter set before her. With face upturned and
eyes closed, she works through the clay, building a steady momentum until her
hands are moving faster than would seem humanly possible. And as Chase looks on
in wonder, the shape of a head begins to emerge.
Minutes
pass, maybe hours. There is little sense of time here. Then just as suddenly as
she began, she stops her work and sighs with a smile of pleasure.
"There."
She wipes her hands on the towel.
"Is
it finished?" Chase asks, straining to see in the dark.
"No,
not yet. The final result seldom resembles my first few attempts. But this is a
good start." She touches the wet sculpture, her fingertips feeling the
shape of the eyes and lingering there. "Yes. A very good start."
"What
will it be, once it's done? The whole thing, I mean. I-uh, couldn't really tell
if it was going to be a man or a woman."
A
broad smile spreads across her lips. "Good. That is my intent." She
touches his hand across the table and inclines her head slightly. "You
see, this sculpture . . . I want it to be neither gender—and yet both. I want
men to see their souls in it. I want women to see their strength. I want it to
be a mystery. Like an angel."
In
her mind, she can see it complete, glorious and beautiful, glowing in the
darkness. But its perfection is short-lived. She sees it crash through the bay
window with an explosion of shattered glass and plummet to the black street
eleven flights below. She sees it crumble, dashed to pieces. But she sees its
face—Chase's face—left intact: white, lifeless, staring back at her.
"What
will you call it?" he asks.
She
catches her breath and blinks. " Us ," she whispers, fighting to
clear her mind. Not every vision comes to pass; this she knows from experience.
They are potential futures only.
She
pats his hand as would a mother. Then she turns to clean up for the night,
collecting the supplies and returning them to their assigned steel cabinets
along the perimeter of the studio. Stumbling in the darkness, Chase does what
he can to help.
"Michelle,
why do you work in the dark?"
She
faces him. "To prove something, Chase."
He
watches her.
She
almost smiles. "To prove that even in darkness, there can be Light."
He
nods. "I-uh, I used to be afraid of the dark—as a kid. Used to scare the
hell out of me."
She
folds the towel and sets it in a bin to be washed.
"Are
you now, Chase?"
He
pauses. "No."
She
nods to herself. "I am glad."
The
door from the office bangs open wide. Loud voices fill the studio, men's
laughter. A blast of white floods the room as one of them flicks the switch.
Chase
squints in the sudden light. Behind him, Michelle releases a stifled cry. He
whirls to find her with both eyes shut, hands groping across the table for her
sunglasses. She fumbles with them, struggles to put them on.
"Michelle—"
Jax stands frozen just inside the studio. He sways a little on his feet.
"I thought you'd–uh, be done here by now."
She
remembers the day they first met in that coffee shop on Third and Elm. She would
never forget the spark that radiated from the core of his being, his desire to
share her art with the world. His Light knew no bounds. But where that bright
flame once kindled, now there is only a swirling abyss of confusion and mixed
desires. And she knows, deep down, that she is the one to blame.
"What
are you doing, Jax?" There is a slight tremor to her voice. She steps
forward, taking Chase's arm for support. "Who are these men with
you?"
Jax
glances over his shoulder at the pair behind him.
"Friends,
Michelle." He coughs, grins. "They want to see your work."
"The
benefit is not until Friday night. You know that."
"Yeah,
but I promised them a sneak preview. So hey, since
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