I am with Lucas. His hair is pale and his eyes blank, the way they always are when he works.
I pose on the bed of our Belmont Street apartment. I am naked, arms crossed, legs crossed, eyes open.
Under his hands, a lump of clay begins to resemble me. It is me, but not me. A separate me, distinct for her elegance, her mystery, her beauty.
His thumb circles to create the contour of an ankle, then a knee, thighs...
I shudder with want, and then with envy for the beautiful, half-formed other.
He slices away to reveal a jagged hip bone, then the small of her back, the hint of vertebrae. I breathe faster. He looks, sees it, but his hands stay on her. Perhaps she is better. Yes. She is what he needs, what he thought I was.
But maybe here, maybe this time I can want him, can make him stay.
Yes.
She begins to breathe and then to press against the callused warmth of his hands.
My skin is burning. I whisper his name. “Please.”
“Promise?” he says.
I swallow. “Please?”
He abandons her, steps toward me, reaches out.
I lock my eyes to his. I must, I must, or he will disappear.
He places a fingertip on my elbow, and behind him I see her. The limbs soften, her face dissolves, crumbles.
He needs me, he has come.
But the clay behind him is shapeless, is cold, and so am I.
Even in dreams, I fail.