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“Have you done many of these?” he asks quietly, his exhale fluttering along my cheekbone.
“No,” I reply, my voice soft and airy. “You’re my second. I did one on Chandra years ago, but that’s it.”
“So, you’re a novice?”
“A little.” I reach down, repeating the wetting process of a new cloth. “Why? Are you nervous about my skills?”
“Not really. I’m sure I’m in good hands.”
“Thanks for the confidence.” My fingertips gently draw the wet white plaster sheet along the form of his bicep. “I just hope it turns out the way I’ve envisioned it in my head.”
“I’m sure it will be great.”
“We shall see.”
Over the next twenty minutes, I apply the tiny slivers of plaster cloth, one by one, to Foster’s naked body, covering every inch of the front portion of his upper torso. He’s an exorbitantly tolerant model, never complaining about the coolness or pressure of my touch or the fact that he’s unable to move, even minutely. During the entire process of transforming his skin from tender flesh to a thickening white mold, he keeps his lung movement in control so not to expand the hardening sculpture as it sets.
“This is the last one,” I tell him while on my knees, applying the final cloth to his lower abdomen. “You just need to hold still for about another ten to fifteen minutes, and then we can remove the finished product.”
“What do you plan to do while I remain here like your human statue?”
“I don’t know.” I rise, running my palm over the front of his body to ensure that every piece is as it should be. “Probably sit on my bed and stare at you while eating popcorn.”
“Will you share some with me?”
“Maybe…” I lightly stroke the shape of his collarbone with my fingers toward his neck, lost in the space where the plaster ends and Foster begins.
The pads of my fingers crawl their way up and over the artificial barrier of the hardening cloth, landing on the man underneath, exploring the shape of his chin and jaw. Unmoving, Foster remains still as I dance my touch higher to his cheekbones and along his nose, as if my fingers are searching for what my brain registers in the drawings and sketches. However, my talent could never truly capture the work of beauty standing before me. It’s one of a kind, and I doubt that anyone could ever be so gifted to truly re-create something like Foster.
Moist lips press to the delicate skin inside my wrist, jolting me back to reality and out of the dream space of the moment I’ve submerged myself into.
“Sorry,” I mumble, disconnecting my touch from his face. “I got caught up a little…”
He releases the faintest grin. “I do, too, sometimes.”
“Yeah.” My eyes dart all over his set features, noting the white splotches. “Um…and I got plaster on your face.”
“Occupational hazard?”
“Unfortunately.” Wiping my hands on my apron, I back away from him and step toward the door. “I’m going to get a washcloth to wipe that off before it sets.”
“I’ll be right here, not going anywhere.”
“Yeah.”
I grunt to myself.A one-word sentence again?
I empty myself into the hallway and shut the door at my back, giving him some privacy and myself a moment to gather my scattered brain.
Where the hell did I go?
It’s not uncommon for me to get lost in my work, but it almost felt like I was getting lost in him.
Are the two worlds colliding, meshing, morphing, blurring, and breaking past the spoken and unspoken lines of what we claim to be?
Am I that oblivious to what’s happening between Foster and me?
No.This is just my imagination grasping on to Chandra’s words, nothing more.
