Please note: while original artwork by MUW students appeared in the print version of The Dilettanti, for technical reasons it has not been included in the online version. All works below are copyrighted by the authors.
| Untitled... | Mary Ernesta Easley | |
| Cacophony | Leslie Randle | |
| Ragtime | Leslie Randle | |
| Old Woman | Alison Moore | |
| Untitled | Nathan Dean | |
| Love be not a stranger | Diedrel Laster | |
| The Calm Ocean | Dena Saulsbury | |
| Untitled | Tammie Wright | |
| The Balcony Scene | Mary Ernesta Easley | |
| Shadow | Melissa Morgan | |
| With Age | Anonymous | |
| Pink Elephants | Misti Holcomb | |
| Four Corners | Kim Devore | |
| Spinning | Shanni | |
| Untitled | Tammie Wright | |
| Bar Content | Dena Saulsbury | |
| The Eyes | Kelly Russell | |
| Weeds and a Fence Post | Maria Dunser | |
| Sunset | Maria Dunser | |
| Restless | Jason Burris | |
| Everlasting Monarch | Kim Devore | |
| in the Himalayas | Hamilton Walters | |
| Inside | Brandy Burnette | |
| Torn | Bradley Evans | |
| Scavengers | Mary Ernesta Easley | |
| The Clay | Hallie Jones | |
| Breathless | Alison Moore | |
| The Line | Anonymous | |
| Where Night Falls | Traci Broom | |
| Untitled | Anonymous | |
| Untitled | Dena Saulsbury | |
| The Old Dusty Book | Tiffany Keller | |
| You Know | Brandy Burnette | |
| Afterglow | Alison Moore |
"So, should I do it?" He looked down at his hands as he pulled out a newly rolled cigarette. He rolled it back and forth in his left hand three times then his right five before placing it on the corner of his thin bottom lip. He reached into his black leather jacket for a lighter. "Bailey?"
She jumped a little in her seat. She had been watching his mannerisms again. "No, you shouldn't." He always rolled his cigarette three times in his left hand if he was upset. It was the same routine every time. Girl problems, what else.
"Are you listening to me?" Solomon had given up finding the lighter in his jacket and now stood up to search his pants.
"Solomon, it's over. You've got to give it up. She's just using you." Bailey reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver Zippo lighter. "Here," she flicked open the lighter and lit it in one quick motion.
Solomon reached down and lit his cigarette. He looked up at Bailey with his emerald green eyes. "God if he isn't beautiful!" Bailey thought to herself. Solomon was tall and lean. His faded denim jeans wrapped around his legs like a second skin, he was wearing a white t-shirt under his worn jacket, and had a white bandana tied on his head holding back long, wavy black hair. Quiet a stunning character. A bleeding Romeo.
"It's not over," he leaned back against the railing and brushed his hand across his bandana. A gesture that normally would have pulled hair back into place if it wasn't for the new cloth crown he wore. "I saw her yesterday. She said she was going to call today. She said we could try it again."
Bailey leaned back in her swinging chair and propped her feet on the balcony railing where Solomon perched. "Sol, you got to let it go. You need to leave it alone and move on."
Solomon pulled a cellular phone from his pocket and flipped it open. "I'm going to call her. That's okay, right?"
Bailey gave him a nonchalant look and turned up half her mouth in a smirk. She folded her hands across her knee and pretended to be interested in her cactus plant beside the chair.
"Ah geez!" Solomon slapped the phone together. "Why not?"
Bailey looked up at him and raised a long, brown eyebrow. "I didn't say anything." She kicked off the side of the railing causing her chair to begin to swing back and forth.
"No, you didn't say anything," Solomon mocked her words. "You just gave me that look." He turned his back to her leaning over the rail smoking.
Bailey twisted in the hammock chair for a minute more letting him stew things over. Solomon was always so dramatic about things. She didn't want to spoil the conversation for him by getting to the point. He liked to have the answers pulled out like a string on a kite. He knew what the answers were; he just didn't want to admit that to himself. For some reason if Bailey said them they had more merit.
Bailey stood up and stretched. Her back ached from her morning job. She leaned against the rail beside Solomon. "I wasn't giving you a look" She looked down at the street below. Newly and Teddy, the kids that lived next door, where playing in the street with some kids from across the way.
Solomon looked over at Bailey. Her hair was pulled up in a roll with two chop sticks holding it together. She was frowning with her full lips and looking at the children below. A light sound of jazz could be heard coming from the apartment below them. Her hands where folded out in front of her. Her silver ring on her thumb had worked its way up past her knuckle. He took her hand and pushed the ring back into place. "Why aren't you smoking? You haven't touched one since I've been here."
Bailey looked over at him. "I quit. It was a bad habit." She stood up and Solomon followed. She looked up into his face. "Bad habit's can kill you, you know? You have to give them up."
"She's not a bad habit," He took another drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke over the balcony.
"I was talking about my smoking. It's only a comfort to me when I need a comfort. You know when times are hard. It's time I stood on my own feet and let go of my crutch."
"She's not a crutch, Bailey. I love her."
"No, she's not a crutch. You're the crutch, Solomon." Bailey pointed a finger into his chest.
"And how do you see that?"
Bailey put a hand on top of her head and leaned back studying Solomon. "Solomon what's the date?"
"I don't know Wednesday the something."
"It's Wednesday, the end of the month."
"Yeah? And?"
"What's due at the end of the month?"
Solomon began to shift uneasy in his stance. "I don't know-"
Bailey reached up and placed a hand on Solomon's chin to make him look at her. "Rent, Solomon, rent is due at the end of the month and you just paid hers didn't you."
Solomon turned away with cigarette in his mouth. "She needed some help. She said she'd pay me back."
"And what are you doing for rent?"
"I can handle it," he did a little tough guy shake.
Bailey pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and put it out on the iron railing of the balcony before throwing it into a pot of cigarette butts. "You got to put it out before it puts you out."
Solomon fiddled with his hands. "We got a chance, you know?"
"No she saw an opportunity and you let it happen. She's not going to call Solomon because she got what she wanted." Bailey put her arms on Solomon's shoulders to steady him. She reached up to smooth a hand across his jaw. "You got to stop letting this happen."
"I'm a big guy, I can take care of myself. I know what I'm getting into. I'm not whipped, Bailey." Solomon ducked into the window and walked towards the kitchen.
Bailey ducked in behind him and sat on the edge of an overstuffed couch watching him. He never came inside unless he didn't want to admit she was right. It was a game of wits for him. He used these talks as a sounding board. Inside his mind somewhere this conversation had already taken place. It just took Bailey sounding it out before he would accept it. If he accepted it, that is.
Solomon took a bottle of water from the refrigerator and took a drink. "I'm not," he declared as he walked towards Bailey with bottle in hand. He stopped directly in front her and took another drink.
Bailey stood up and began pushing Solomon's leather jacket down off of his shoulders. With the jacket off, she pulled up his shirt. "What's this?"
Solomon looked down at his chest where Bailey was pointing. "It's a name."
Bailey pulled his shirt back down and patted the spot on his chest. "Her name."
"Well, I know a lot of girls by that name."
"She seen it?"
"Maybe."
"Does it hurt?"
Solomon picked his leather jacket back up and put it on. "No, it's a tattoo."
"I just figured it must burn when she's pulling money out of your back pocket as soon as you put it there."
Solomon started to argue then sighed and sat down beside Bailey. He sat the water bottle on the ground and laid his head over in her lap. "It's hard, Bailey."
Bailey soothed his back with her hand. "I know."
"I think I love her. She does things to me that no one else does you know."
"I'm sure you can find plenty of people that can do that for you." Bailey pinched his jaw and smiled down at him.
Solomon laughed. "Why? You offering?" He ran a hand up along her leg towards her butt and smiled devilishly at her.
There, the smile, that was what she was after. "No you're not my type."
Solomon raised himself up and pulled Bailey closer to him. "And what is your type."
Bailey slid off the arm of the couch and landed in his lap. "I don't know. I just keep checking out chests waiting to see my name on one so I will know he is the right one."
Solomon started laughing. "That's your plan?"
"Well it seems to work for some people. You know Sol my light bill is due next week, maybe we could work something out."
"Oh, really?" Solomon stopped laughing and looked at Bailey. A strange look of realization came over his face. The room grew still and Solomon shifted his legs under Bailey.
Bailey recognized that look. She could feel heat rising from his legs onto her rear that was parked there. A lump of fear settled in her stomach and excitement raced in her veins. "No! Not now, not like this," she thought.
Solomon was hurting. He was confused. She had seen it happen before. He needed a distraction, an outlet. She wasn't prepared to give that service. It would mean nothing to him. It would mean nothing to her. She wasn't attracted to him, why she didn't know. He was definitely a handsome man. All she knew was that this would be wrong.
Bailey willed herself to stand up. "So how's work?"
Solomon watched her stand then reality set in. He picked up the bottle of water and walked into the kitchen with it. "I got to go, the guys are expecting me at Patrick's."
Bailey watched him ease towards the door. He looked like a kid who had just spilled red kool-aide on the carpet and was trying to hide it.
"Okay," she nodded at him. "Take care."
"Thanks," he stepped back into the room for a minute. "I mean for the water and all." He turned around looking for the door.
Bailey smiled.
"I'll be seeing you," he waved and slipped out the door.
Bailey walked over to the counter and picked up the bottle. She took a drink. It was the first time that Solomon had ever went out her apartment door. He usually just climbed down the fire escape ladder.
Bailey always thought that that entrance was very appropriate. The bleeding Romeo performing his balcony scene. She had wandered how long it would take before he would turn attentions towards her. Each week he climbed those steps to cry on her shoulder. It was only a matter of time before he tried to take solace in another form. Confusion. It alters the brain. No one had ever cared for him so he mistook caring for the only thing he understood-lust.
Bailey stepped back out onto her balcony and sat in her hammock chair again. She could here Solomon's motorcycle as he drove away. Patrick's was closed tonight. She smiled to herself and lit a cigarette. She knew where he was going. He had kicked his bad habit about as much as she had. She had never had any intentions of quitting smoking. But bad habits encourage other bad habits. She had to set an example for Solomon. That was the only way he would understand.
Bailey leaned back in the swing and began to rock back and forth. Oh, well at least she got her swing hung up in the bargain.
He'd be back soon. Bailey waved at Newly in the street. He always came back because she listened.
I didn't remember ever seeing her before, but she was here now. I didn't think a person was capable of looking good under a black light, but she did. It wasn't just good though, it was something more. It's not exactly her beauty that I am talking about. There were scores of more beautiful women there that night, yet they didn't seem to possess the passion that she did.
I think it was her eyes that caught my attention. I think it was her eyes that made me feel as if my soul were on fire. There was nothing extraordinary about them, at least they weren't like the ones used on billboards and TV, but then again...It was the way she used them that I will remember. When she looked at me, even only for a passing glance, you knew that she was aware of everything. Hours later when we finally met, she knew who I was, where I worked, and what I drank.
As I sat at the bar, I noticed how crowded the club was. I had been coming here every Friday night for almost two years now and I had never seen so many people here at one time. I was still in my shirt and tie from my day at the office and was starting on my second hour of drinking. I was thinking deep thoughts into a fresh glass of scotch vaguely remembering that I had somewhere to be, when I noticed that the seat next to me was no longer empty.
Before I realized that it was her who had sat down next to me, I heard a pleasant voice ask,
"Do you come here often?" I almost laughed but realized at the last second that I didn't want to turn her off before I had a chance to talk to her.
"As a matter of fact I do, and I haven't seen you here before," I answered. This seemed to startle her. Her eyes wavered from mine, but only for a second and then the playful smile returned to her lips.
"Well, I try to visit new places every once in a while," she chirped. I could tell by the candy coating of her voice that she didn't mean it. In fact, I'm not even sure that she wanted to be talking to me. But she made no attempt to leave her seat or turn away from me, so I thought I had better make my move now.
"Could I buy you a drink?" I asked.
"Sure," she answered, "but not here, the crowd makes me nervous."
"Where should we..." was all I had time to say because the men at the bar next to us decided not to take it outside and began to wrestle drunkenly on the floor. Before I knew what was happening, she had grabbed my arm and was dragging me through the gathering crowd toward the exit. By the time we made it to the sidewalk my wrist was aching where her fingers held it in a deathgrip.
"Ow," I complained "Have you been working out?" I held my wrist rubbing it with my other hand.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. I just needed to get out of there in a hurry. I hate crowds."
I could almost hear a hint of tears in her voice. She was terrified, but why would a woman who could bruise my arm with her grip be afraid of two drunken men wrestling on the floor? Her voice interrupted me mid-thought.
"I know of a coffee house near here where we could go to talk," she suggested. We took her car since I always caught the bus home after work, especially after a night of drinking alone.
Once inside the shop I ordered coffee; she wanted cappuccino. I thought that once I saw her in a well-lit room that she would lose some of her mystery. I was wrong. Not only could I see the serene look in her eyes, but I also noticed the fluid way she moved. It seemed to me that she would have been capable of walking the entire length of the shop without disturbing the air. Her movement was almost feline.
We sat near the back of the cafÈ and spoke quietly about everything and nothing at all. I could have told you her favorite color or how she had gotten the tiny scar above her right eye, but not what she did for a living or her last name. Those things seemed futile at the time, yet now as I look back, I wish I had asked.
Everything was perfect, the coffee, the conversation, yet somehow there was uneasiness in the air. I started to ask her if she felt the same way when a young waiter tripped over a large throw rug used for its ambiance, spilling a tray of coffee and complimentary water all over the floor. All of the customers turned their eyes toward the pitiful soul. Next to me, I heard a voice; she was talking.
"Why can't they leave me alone? All I want is to live my own life! Is that so much to ask?"
I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.
"I have to go make a phone call, will you excuse me?"
I said I would and sat there trying to figure out what she meant about living her own life. When she returned, she acted as if she hadn't said anything. When she saw the confused look on my face she grabbed my hand in her vice-like grip and whispered,
"Do you think there is anything worth dying for?" I still only stared at her, saying nothing. By the time I realized that she was moving, she was half way out of the door. I bolted after her but stopped short as a sleek, black Corvette came to a screeching halt outside of the coffee shop. She also hesitated, but only for a second. Then, her feline grace carried her off to the left and out of my field of vision. I ran out onto the sidewalk after her in time to see her turning the corner; she was headed into the warehouse district. It was no place for a woman, or anyone for that matter, to be at night. But if you wanted to hide, I could think of no better place. The Corvette soon followed, appearing slow and awkward in comparison to her. I knew she would make it, I don't know why, but I knew.
The next morning, I woke up in my apartment. I didn't remember riding home. I opened the front door to retrieve the morning paper; my head throbbed. As I read the headlines, I was gripped by fear. A woman had been found murdered in the warehouse district the night before; she had been shot twice in the back. The man who had identified the body had disappeared before being questioned by the police. The picture that appeared with the story was an old one and out of focus. My eyes began to tear as I thought of her last moments and if I could have done something to stop it. But as I looked at the photo, I began to smile. The woman staring up at me from the paper had the smile of the young woman, but the eyes betrayed her. The eyes of this girl reminded me of the dim-witted gaze of a pigeon and not the powerful stare of an eagle that had been watching me the night before. She had gotten away, from whom and from what I didn't know, but she had gotten away.
********
I knew that I had to see her again. I needed to know for sure that she was ok; her safety had suddenly become very important to me. After my second cup of coffee I decided that I had to go looking for her in the warehouse district. I would start near the coffee shop and branch out from there. I was nearly ready to begin my search when the phone rang.
"Hello," I answered feeling slightly annoyed.
"Oh, so you are home," it was my sister, and the tone of her voice told me she was pissed. "I was expecting to get your machine letting me know that you were called out of the country on important business."
"Trish," I said, noting her sarcasm, "why would I be called out of the country? If you haven't forgotten, I'm only a bank teller."
"Well, I just figured that you would have a very good reason for missing Tara's birthday party last night after you promised her that you would be there."
My heart sank and I finally remembered where I was supposed to have been. I had promised my niece that I wouldn't miss her birthday party; I had even said that I would jump in the Spacewalk with her. I felt so ashamed.
"Tara was heartbroken; she asked me if you still liked her. What am I supposed to say to a five-year-old girl on her birthday? 'I'm sorry Tara, but your Uncle Brian had a date with a bottle of scotch.'"
She was beginning to get on my nerves, but I was in no mood to argue with her.
"Trish, how about I take you and Tara to Chucky Cheese's to make up for it?"
"Tara will love that, but you're not getting off so easy with me."
"Fair enough, I'll see you in an hour." As I hung up the phone, I wondered what she was doing for lunch but quickly shook the thought out of my head. I had let myself get lost in her world the night before, I would be more careful to not let it happen again.
Tara couldn't have been happier as she tried to win prize tickets playing skee-ball. Trish and I watched from a distance; an oppressing silence threatened to suffocate us. Before she even began to speak, I knew what she was going to say would make me even more uncomfortable than the silence did.
"Brian," she started, "what is happening to you?" "You hardly ever see the family any more, you go to that bar all the time, and what happened to Cindy?"
"Sandy," I corrected, "her name was Sandy."
"It doesn't matter what her name was, the fact is that you have been distancing yourself from everyone in the past few years and I want to know why!"
"Trish, I would just rather be alone. I thought that Sandy and I had something special, but I guess I was wrong. It's just better for everyone that I stay to myself."
"Better for everyone?" "Listen to yourself, Brian, you are beginning to sound like a full blown recluse."
She was right, I sounded pretty pathetic, even to myself.
"You just have to make the effort, Brian. Happiness isn't going to fall into your lap." "Why don't you try to meet someone new; put your time at the bar to good use?"
I didn't know if I should tell her or not. I had met someone knew, but that someone might be dead. Yet I kept being drawn into hoping, and believing that she wasn't. No, I wouldn't tell Trish. It was just too soon.
"Trish, I appreciate your concern but..."
"But nothing. Look, I am just trying to watch out for you, you're the only brother I've got."
"Okay, I'll try to do better."
"That's all I wanted to hear."
She didn't sound convinced, and frankly, I wasn't convinced either. But this conversation had succeeded in doing one thing; I knew that I had to see her again.
On my way home from lunch, I took the scenic route knowing that I would pass the coffee shop where we had been the night before. I found myself parking the car and walking over to the front window. I stood there on the sidewalk just staring, hoping in vain that she would be there. My watch beeped the hour and I realized that I had been standing there for nearly twenty minutes. Feeling foolish, I quickly drove home to my apartment.
As I unlocked my front door, I had nearly convinced myself that I would never see her again when I heard footsteps approaching from behind. As I turned to investigate, my eyes met hers and I was frozen.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she quipped.
" I'm not too sure that I haven't," I stuttered. I was at a loss for what to feel. I felt exhilaration because she was still alive and here at my apartment, yet I was scared knowing that at any moment she could run out of my life again. Maybe this time it would be for good.
"Would you like to come inside," I offered, not really sure about what I hoped she would say.
"I would like that very much, Brian"
"How do you know my name? I never told you."
"Let's go inside and I'll do my best to fill you in." I led her into the living room and offered her some coffee. As I poured her a cup, a million thoughts ran through my head. Could this be a joke? Was she a con-artist? Was her life really in danger? I decided it was best to let her explain and either confirm or dispel my fears.
"To begin with," I said trying not to sound to anxious, "what is your name?"
"Brian," she started, "let me tell the story from the beginning and all of your questions will be answered."
"My name is Alexandra Benton. I work as a photojournalist for the Times-Picayune. While I was covering a charity function, I stumbled upon an extensive embezzlement front and had the pictures to prove it. I received several threats by mail and by phone, all of which I ignored. It wasn't until I found my dog dead that I knew these people were serious. I contacted some people I could trust in the police department and went into hiding. While meeting with one of these contacts at the bar, I saw you. I had my friend run a check on you, and you seemed like a good place to hide..."
"I what?!" I interrupted, "You thought I was a good place to hide?"
"Brian, please let me finish."
"I didn't know where to go. The people after me would be watching my family and friends. I needed somewhere to stay."
Was she asking to move in with me? I didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted.
"Your life style is just what I was looking for. You go to work, where you talk to no one, go to the bar, where you talk to no one, and then come home, where you talk to no one."
"Basically, what you're saying is that you sought me out because I am a total loser?" I was becoming angry and defensive. It was becoming hard to control my temper.
"Brian, please try to understand my situation. Besides, just because you don't talk to anyone doesn't make you a loser."
"Yeah, well what does it make me?" I was in the mood to argue now.
"Please, calm down and let me finish."
"Last night I sought you out, got to know you, and liked what I saw. However, they saw me too. I recognized one of the men that had been after me in the coffee shop. I went to the phone to call my friend who was waiting for me, making sure you were really an okay guy. As soon as he pulled up in his Corvette, I ran out making it seem like I was running away from him. He picked me up a few blocks down and we got away."
She finished with a smile and took a sip of her coffee. I watched her eyes over the top of the coffee cup and wondered how much of this I could believe. I grabbed the paper off of the table and opened it to her story.
"So who's she?" I asked pointing to the picture of the dead girl.
"I was hoping that you hadn't seen that." "We had to make it seem like I had died in order for me to get away. That girl died of a drug overdose around 7:00 last night. My friend has connections with the coroner. He arranged for the body to be placed and identified as me. There will be no autopsy to report anything to the contrary; I am dead. My family was notified this morning."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Could any of this be true? It seemed impossible, but her eyes never left mine and I could see that she was beginning to cry. I wanted to comfort her.
"Alexandra..."
"Please, call me Alex."
"Alex, would you like to stay here, with me, while you get things in order?" I couldn't believe the words that were coming out of my mouth. I had just asked a woman that I had known for less than a day to move in with me. I knew I would have to give up my solitary life, but it felt so right.
"I do want to live here, Brian. I want to get to know you. I want to continue my work and eventually indict those who tried to kill me."
As much as her words frightened me, I felt a spark of adventure and a pang of disbelief. Could this woman, this beautiful, green-eyed creature, want to live with me? I searched my feelings. How did I feel about this woman? She had used me and put my life in danger. I knew I must be crazy, but this didn't bother me. All I could think of was that she was here now and that I was glad of it. I decided not to ask anymore questions. Besides, I don't think I really want to know the answers. I turned back to her and looked into her eyes.
"Well, where do we start?"
His hands were old now and tinted a dirty brown from his many years of working with pottery. He had always worked with clay ever since he was a young boy, and now he was making his final piece. He knew that this one had to be perfect, because this one told the story about "her."
As he began to uncover the big block of clay he could not help but remember how she used to be like all of those other snooty high-class people. She had almost perfectly conformed to their mold, and yet there was something different about her. He could still remember the first time that she came into his pottery store. He did not know if he was first overcome by her beauty alone or if he saw the potential in her to be someone other than a copy of everyone else. As she looked around the shop, she did not say much. She just looked at everything with the same expression. Finally, a small bowl that was in pastel colors caught her eye. She said she would pick it up after she finished her other shopping, and out the door she went before he had even a chance to agree or say good- bye.
Finally, he finished uncovering the block of clay and began to tear away a piece, suitable to the size that it was to be. As he tore the piece, he remembered how she had come back late that afternoon. He had not closed yet, although it had been time to go home fifteen minutes earlier. She asked for her package and while he was getting it, he asked her if she would like a cup of tea. She graciously accepted and they then sat down together and began to talk. He could not remember what they talked about, only that they talked for more than an hour, before she realized the time. With this realization, she rushed out the door, accidentally forgetting her bowl. During that hour, he saw something in her that made her different. She had broken away from the others, even if it was just for an hour, and been slightly herself. She was like the clay after it has been torn away; she stepped out of her normal companion circle and showed that she was different. He had not noticed that she left her package until he started to clean up the tea. It was then that he found it still all bundled up where she had sat. He picked it up in his hands, which were at that time youthful and strong. He then went and looked up her address in the book, in order to drop it off on his way home.
Even in his old age, he could still imagine how beautiful her house had been and the smell of the flowers all around it. She answered the door and thanked him time after time for having brought the bowl to her. She tried to pay him for the service, but he refused money. Finally, she invited him to go on a picnic with her that next day. This he accepted and then turned to go home.
After he tore off the piece of clay, he wet it and thrust it down upon the potter's wheel. As the wheel turned, he put his hands on it and began to mold it. At first, it did not change much, but as he continued to work and spend time with it, the mass of clay began to improve. As he worked his mind kept drifting back to her. They had gone out many other times after their picnic and each time, she became more and more herself. She molded into something more different and beautiful every minute that he spent with her. His mind drifted back to what he was doing when suddenly the clay began to fall in. He hurriedly tried to support it, making it stand up correctly again. He could remember the first time that she broke down, yet she had overcome it. She had fallen many times since then, yet she had always overcome it.
The wet clay was soft and smooth to his touch. He could remember how he longed to touch her at times, but he had always known that he could not. He knew though, that her skin was as soft and smooth as the clay. He wanted to make his final work perfect, just like her. Finally, he had it all molded and he just had to wait for it to dry in order for him to bake it.
While it dried in the days that followed, he kept remembering how she had so many callers. Yet, he waited for her and remained her friend, because he knew that he would rather have her friendship than nothing at all, and the third alternative was not possible. Finally, the pottery was dry enough to bake. He took and wrapped it up so that it would not get dirty and then placed it into the fire in order to cook it. He waited as it became solid enough to withstand almost anything. She had almost gotten that strong. They had known each other practically a year. She had been more alive and herself than at any other time, yet she did not have any more time to be herself. She had to be someone's, but she could not be his. At that time the clay exploded, same as the gun that early morning in her bedroom.