“My god, Cole, you’ve outdone yourself,” Betsy breathes, staring at the sculpture like it's an idol. “What are you calling it?”
“Fragile Ego,” I reply.
Betsy laughs. “How uncharacteristically self-deprecating,” she says.
I say nothing in return, because as usual, Betsy has completely missed the point.
I’m not referencing my own ego, which is indestructible.
Before the night is out, my sculpture has sold for $750,000 to some newly minted tech billionaire.
“Are they planning to melt it down for the gold?” Alastor says sourly.
He’s never sold a piece for half that much.
“I don’t think anyone’s bought a piece of my art just to destroy it,” I say, reminding Shaw that a fundamentalist church bought one of his paintings just to set it on fire. That was in his early days when he was a provocateur, not a salesman.
He’s in no mood for mockery tonight. His face looks puffy above the too-tight collar of his dress shirt, his broad chest rising and falling a little too rapidly.
He stares at the sculpture with unconcealed envy.
Shaw has talent, I can admit that.
But I have more.
Then, in the midst of his irritation and resentment, his entire expression changes. Understanding dawns.
“No . . .” he says softly. “You didn’t . . .”
I don’t have to confirm it, and I don’t bother to deny it. The truth is plain for anyone who has eyes to see.
Alastor lets out a sensual sigh.
“The balls on you . . .” he says. “To put it up for display . . .”
Briefly, he sets aside his jealousy. I set aside my loathing.
We gaze at the sculpture, sharing a moment of deep satisfaction.
Then his impulses take over and he can’t help sneering, “It took the small words of a small man to motivate you to make great art.”
Anger bubbles up inside of me, thick and hot.
Unlike Shaw, I don’t allow my emotions to shape my words. I carefully consider what will enrage him most.
Looking Alastor right in the eyes, I say, “No one will ever talk about your work the way they talk about mine. It must eat you up inside every day, waking up to your own mediocrity. You will never be great. Do you want to know why?”
He’s fixed in place, the sneer frozen on his lips.
“It’s because you lack discipline,” I tell him.
Now his fury washes over him, his fists clenched and trembling at his sides, his thick shoulders shaking.
“You’re no different than me,” he hisses. “You’re no better.”
“I am better,” I say. “Because whatever I do, I’m always in control.”
I walk away from him then, so those words can echo and echo in the emptiness of his head.
2
Mara Eldritch
I get up at an ungodly hour so I can shower before all the hot water is gone.
I share a moldering Victorian row house with eight other artists. The house was hacked into flats by someone with no respect for building codes and very little understanding of basic geometry. Thin plywood walls divide the rooms into triangles and trapezoids with no consideration for how a rectangular bed is supposed to fit in the space. The slanting, rotted floors and sagging ceilings add to the madhouse effect.
I occupy the tiny attic space at the very top of the house—sweltering hot in summer, and frigid in winter. Still, it’s a coveted perch because it provides access to a small private balcony. I like to drag my mattress out on cool nights to sleep under the stars. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to camping.
My whole life has been spent in this city, often in worse houses than this.
I’ve never known anything but fog and ocean breeze, and streets that roll up and down in dizzying hills that make your calves burn and your body lean like a tree in wind.
The pipes shudder as I turn on the shower, crammed into a space the size of a phone booth. The water that sputters out is gray at first, then relatively clear. Lukewarm, but that’s better than ice cold.
I shower quickly because I can already hear doors creaking and slamming as several other roommates roll out of bed. Frank’s coffee is burning in the downstairs kitchen. Smells like his toast might be, too.
Artists are not known for rising early, but none of us are successful enough to avoid the shackles of a side job. I’ve got three.
This morning I’m working a brunch shift, and later I’ll be taking four unruly canines for a run in the park.
I slam my hip against the bathroom door to force it open again, the steam-swollen wood jammed into the frame. I almost collide with Joanna, who’s heading downstairs in an oversized t-shirt, nothing underneath.