Cole laughs wickedly. “I told them it was like a corn maze. They think people will love it.”
“You’re a sadist.”
He kisses me, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood.
“You fucking know it.”
10
Cole
November flows into December, each day passing quicker than the last.
I’m already regretting winning the bid for the sculpture.
York is demanding I build it as quickly as possible, before the next round of elections in the spring.
And just as I expected, I’m fucking hating it.
I have to command an entire crew of construction workers, none of whom know the first fucking thing about working with these kinds of materials.
I’m out on the frigid, whistling flat top of Corona Heights Park, in the goddamned coldest December since 1932, shouting at welders who have already shattered a dozen of the smoked glass plates that make up the walls of the labyrinth.
This might possibly be tolerable if Mara was with me, but she’s not. She’s back at the studio, finishing up her series in time for the show I’m throwing next week.
Whenever I want to snap the neck of one of the incompetent glaziers, I pull out my phone and check the camera in her studio. It gives me a sense of peace watching her dab away at the canvas, her music blasting, her spare paintbrushes twisted up in her hair.
She’s much too engrossed in her work to think about me.
Once, she seemed to sense that I was watching. She turned and faced the camera, grinning and giving me a saucy wave. Then she pulled up her shirt, flashing her tits at me, before turning back to her work.
She could only have been guessing, but my cock still raged against my clothing, demanding that I abandon this idiotic project and speed back to the studio so I could bury myself inside of her.
When Mara’s working, I might as well not exist.
She’s completely absorbed by the project, forgetting to eat or drink or sleep.
It makes me insane with jealousy. I hate when anything pulls her attention away from me.
That’s not how my mind works.
I can think about many things at once, and one of those things is always Mara.
Like a computer that can run several programs simultaneously, I keep tabs on Shaw and Officer Hawks, supervise the construction of the sculpture, and think of every possible way that I can wrap another rope around my sweet little Mara and pull it tight.
When I can abandon the sculpture at the end of the workday, I head over to the studio to pull Mara’s attention back where it belongs: onto me.
I used to hate the holidays. They seemed pathetic and manufactured, designed to give some semblance of structure to the year. So people could pretend to celebrate, when really they’d rather not see their family at all and would only use the excuse to drink as much as possible before passing out in front of the tree.
I’m learning how different the world appears when everything you do is for someone else.
Now, instead of Christmas trees and decorations striking me as tacky, I want to find the most beautiful ones possible, so I can surprise Mara when she walks through the door and finds the house bedecked in soft, silvery lights. I want to see them reflected on her skin and hair, echoing the smoky color of her eyes.
It’s easy to reduce Mara to childlike wonder. To give her what she never had before.
I pile the presents under the tree, dozens of them, all with her name on the tags. She doesn’t care what’s inside—the fact that she has gifts waiting for her reduces her to tears, and she has to go and hide in a distant corner of the house, headphones on, wrapped in a blanket, until she’s ready to come look at them again.
Every stupid thing that people do, that I used to watch them do, now I’m in the center of it.
I take her skating on the holiday ice rink at Embarcadero Center. In this strange wintery weather, San Franciscans are giddy with the joy of actually donning scarves and pom-pom hats, zipping around under the frost-blighted palm trees, drinking their hot cocoa.
The city is loaded with twice as many twinkling lights, as if trying to drive away the freezing fog that blows in off the bay, each day colder than the one before.
The other skaters float in and out of view like ghostly wraiths.
Mara is an angel in the softly glowing light.
I bought her a snow-white parka with fur all around the face. She wears a pair of fluffy mittens and a brand-new pair of skates, freshly sharpened to a razor’s edge. Only the best for Mara, no shitty rentals.
I never knew how good generosity could feel. My ability to make her life comfortable and magical gives me a sense of god-like power. Not a wrathful god anymore, but one overflowing with goodness and light.