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“Cinderella—oddly fitting. She also had rodent friends, if I’m not mistaken.”
The audible groan I hear from her is wickedly delightful. Looking up at me over her shoulder, her eyes roll. Shaking her head, she walks over to the post across from Dennis. Lowering herself into a lotus position, she places her hands in her lap and fidgets with the fabric of her shirt. The anxious mannerisms, while distracting, aren’t as bad as the commentary, so I’m considering it progress.
After a few minutes, her boot shakes, and I can see her mind buzzing with whatever is bothering her. I let her fester in her own frustrations as she’s done to me for days before breaking the silence.
“What is it?”
Her foot stops moving, and she looks at me with doe eyes. Her normally lethal stare is replaced with a tinge of innocence. As if she’s a child who is guilty of something.
“What? I didn’t say a thing.” She crosses her arms, but her face speaks volumes.
“Come on…out with it.”
Her lips purse.
“Well…it’s just…it’s just that…”
“Patience.”
Trying to bite back my frustration and failing, her fidgeting stops, her eyes focus on my hand.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
“Excuse me? I’ve been doing this for years. I know how to drill the joint points, thank you very much.”
“Sure. If you want it to look perfectly clean and sterile. Where’s the character? Where’s the fun? The man looks like he’s just gotten out of surgery.”
I look at the clean drill point, then back to Patience, who continues to shuffle on her feet. My mind reels, trying to catch up with her thought process.
“Are you suggesting that I purposefully mangle him?”
“Not mangle; add more flare, pizzaz!” Her fingers fan out in a jazz hand movement, accompanied by theatrically wide eyes.
“I have plenty flare in my work.” My eyes turn to Dennis. His current state isn’t helping my case. His arms are bent at odd angles, and his head lazily droops toward his lap.
Patience must be thinking the same thing as one of her eyebrows arches and a smirk appears.
“It’s not done!” I snap in defense of my work. Picking up the scalpel, I tear open his pants to begin work on his knees.
“Whatever you say…” She shrugs and crosses her arms.
I try to refresh the image in my mind of how I pictured him as a marionette, focusing on each aspect of the vision. My thoughts reel from one element to another, trying to determine what is wrong with it. It’s perfect. I think. No—I’m positive. Frustration builds within my chest until the image turns hazy, like Vaseline smeared over glass. Across from me, Patience stands, using the bend of her thumb to push her lip between her teeth.
“Tell me,” I say, looking at Dennis as if the element I’ve been missing will suddenly appear.
“Tell you what?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. Tell me what is wrong with it,” I snap.
She takes a few steps forward.
“May I?” she asks as she points to the bag of tools.
“Sure? What do yo—”
“Thanks.” She reaches into the bag and pulls out the larger drill bit. Once it’s fitted into the drill, she grabs Dennis’s right knee, rotates it to its side, and begins to drill.
Her technique is definitely more Jackson Pollock to my Charles Sheeler —blood sprays from the bit in every direction. A sudden pop reverberates through the wood planks under my feet, heralding a break through the joint. She stops the drill and pulls it out of the joint. A wet squelch emanates from the leg as she struggles to free the last of the bit.
