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"Are you crazy?"
"How would I know if I were crazy? Crazy people never know they're crazy." Like Anton. He didn't really seem to think of himself as a crazy person, but he kind of was. Maybe I was crazy, too.
...Yeah, probably.
Jake scratched the side of his nose. "Yeah, okay," he said after a minute. "That sounds like it has a good hook. Give someone an exclusive deal for the photos, move a ton of copy. How long do you think it'll take you?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. My big pieces take at least a couple months, but if I really work on it... maybe three, four weeks?"
“Good,” he said. “That's good, a good amount of time. A month. Long enough to be titillating and drag out the suspense, but short enough to hold their attention.”
I stoppe
d and tucked the table legs under my arm before sticking my hand out. He stared at it like it was a snake waiting to bite.
“Shake on it,” I said. “You get the exclusive photos, and I'll act like a crazy person to make them worth selling.”
“So you want the world to see you acting crazy?”
I shrugged. “No such thing as bad publicity, right?”
“I'm not so sure about that,” he muttered, but after a moment he grabbed my hand in his gloved one and gave me a good shake, nice and firm. I squeezed his fingers as hard as I could.
“Ow,” he said.
“I know your face, now,” I said. “Don't forget that.”
He grimaced, and I smiled, feeling good for the first time since I'd walked out of Anton's house.
*
Sculpting takes a while. A long while. Clay is a very warm medium, very responsive. Every interaction you have with it is preserved. Even when you're beating it to death with a two-by-four.
I worked naked except for a pair of panties. A little nod to Anton's command, telling me never to wear underwear again. Well, I'd goddamn wear underwear if I felt like it, and I did feel like it. More specifically, I didn't feel like getting clay stuck in my snatch.
But I still thought of Anton while I worked. Not necessarily the beating of the clay, but the sheer physicality of the task I'd set before me put me in mind of other physical activities. Wet clay slithered under my hands as I smoothed it out. With every pound and hard push, it responded to me, the way Anton did.
Every time I had to climb on top of my sculpture, I thought of Anton. I thought of riding his face, of riding his cock. I thought about him when I had to straddle my creation and push it into new shapes, my clay-covered ass in the air. I'd presented myself to him this way, and he had taken me without thinking twice about it. I remembered the feel of his hands on my hips, his cock in my pussy. I remembered how raw and animal we were, and I channeled it. Slowly, surely, my work began to take shape, and I knew even before it became recognizable that it was the best work I'd ever done.
I left my blinds up and turned the lights on in my apartment while I pounded clay. Not my favorite way to work, but definitely the only way to let Jake take pictures without alerting everyone that we were in collusion. I leaned out the window when I became so hot and covered in sweat that I couldn't take it any more, my body burning with effort and memories. I didn't bother to put clothes on. The world had already seen me. It wasn't like I was giving anyone a show who didn't want it. Besides, I worked mostly at night so Jake could get the best light from inside my apartment, so it wasn't like I was walking down the street with my tits hanging out in broad daylight.
I slept on my mattresses when I was too tired to work any more. I washed my mouth out with water, ate blocks of dry noodles, and stared into space, reliving the past three weeks.
Anton invaded my head even when I wasn't thinking about him. I'd stretch out, trying to work the kinks from my back, and I would remember the way his hands felt as they massaged away my tension. It didn't matter what the tension was over—even if it was over him and his insatiable needs—just his touch calmed me. I'd been addicted to him, and now that I was doing my detox, I started to see how unhealthy we had been.
And yet I still missed it.
It's hard to work with a hole in your chest. Inside me, there was a void, an aching sadness that I couldn't chase away. No matter how hard I kicked my sculpture, no matter how hard I pounded it, it remained. More than once I rained my fists down on a particular lump of stubborn clay only to find myself sobbing, my hands bruised as tears ran down my face. I was a hole with a woman wrapped around it, and it felt like that would never change.
*
I lost track of time. The tabloids must have come out, because people started knocking on my door and ringing my bell, asking me if they could have a few words with me. Sadie came by, and even though I knew she had a key, she didn't barge in. Instead she knocked on the door until Mrs. Andersen told her to go to hell and die, and I heard her audibly sigh and shove some money through the crack under the door. When I opened it later that night I found a garbage bag full of my old work clothes sitting on my doorstep with a few blankets, soap, my toothbrush and toothpaste, and some shampoo and conditioner. It made me smile. Good old Sadie. She knew what was really important to an artist. Sleep and a shower.
Anton didn't show up.
But I didn't expect him to. I had to call him to me. I had to let him know it was okay.
I worked harder.
