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“Tell me what you see when you look at this sculpture,” Wilson asked
after a while, his eyes roving down the sensual lines of the stained
mahogany. His hand traced the contours
reverently.
I had whittled away the
heaviness from the branches, creating hollows and sinews and shaping the
suggestion of lovers wrapped around each other while still maintaining the
natural innocence and simplicity of the merging branches. The branches were
Mountain Mahogany, the wood a natural reddish brown. I'd rubbed several applications of black
stain into one branch, and it gleamed like a black jungle cat, the golden red
tones melding with the dark stain so the black looked like it was silhouetted
in sunlight. I applied no stain to the
other branch. I had simply buffed and glossed the golden red wood until it was
glowing like amber. The effect was that
the two limbs in the sculpture appeared to be different kinds of wood, branches
from two different trees. The result was a statement all its own.
I looked away. I felt hot and angry and my chest was tight
with a feeling Wilson always seemed to stir in me.
“I'd rather not.”
“Why?” Wilson sounded
genuinely confused by my refusal, since I was usually eager to discuss my
carvings with him.
“Why do you want my
explanation? What do you see when
you look at them?” I said crossly.
Wilson withdrew his hand from the sculpture and grabbed my braid where
it hung over my shoulder. He tugged it
gently, wrapping it around his hand as he did.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong. I'm preoccupied,” I protested. “And my art is not about what I see. It's about what I feel. And right now I don't really want to discuss
what I feel.” I tried to pull my hair
free from his hand, but he wound it tighter, pulling me toward him.
“I see limbs, and love, and lust,” Wilson
stated flatly. I stopped resisting, and
my eyes rose to his. Wilson's eyes were
wide and frank but his jaw was clenched as if he knew he was crossing that
invisible line he'd drawn for himself.
“I'm not surprised you
see those things,” I said softly.
“Why?” His eyes were intense,
and I was suddenly furious. I was in
love with Wilson, no doubt about it, but I would not be toyed with, and I sure
as hell wasn't going to play kissy face ten minutes after Pamela left.
“You've just spent the
evening with Pamela.” I reminded him sweetly.
“She is a beautiful woman.”
Wilson's eyes flashed,
and he dropped my braid, turning back toward the sculpture. I could tell he was mentally counting to
ten. If I made him angry, it was his own
fault. What did he think I was going to
do, wrap myself around him after he'd ignored me off and on for months? I wasn't that girl. But maybe he thought I
was. I took several deep breaths and
ignored the tension that simmered between us.
It was thick enough to slice and serve with a big dollop of denial. He took several steps, his hands fisted in
his hair, putting some distance between us.
I stood my ground,
waiting for him to make the next move. I
had no idea what he was doing here. And
he didn't seem to know either. When he
looked at me again his mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes held a note
of pleading, as if he needed to convince me of something.
“You said your art is
about what you feel, not what you see. I
told you what I see. Now you tell me
what you feel,” he demanded.
“What are we talking
about Wilson?” I shot back. I walked
toward him, hands shoved in my pockets.
“Are we talking about the sculpture?”
He watched me as I approached, but I didn't stop until our toes were
almost touching.
“If we're talking about
the sculpture, fine. I see desire and
belonging and love without space.” I
said the words like I was a guide at an art museum, putting emphasis on the
word space. “What do I feel? Well, that's easy. I've been at work all day. I'm tired, Wilson.
And I'm hungry. And I don't like Pamela. There.
That's what I feel. How about
you?”
Wilson looked at me like
he wanted to shake me until my teeth rattled.
Then he just shook his head and walked to the door. “I'm sorry I asked, Blue,” he sighed. He sounded weary and resigned, like one of
those TV dads, just trying to tolerate his teen-aged daughter. “Goodnight, Blue.”
I was too confused and
befuddled to even respond. He walked out
of my apartment without another word.
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