Flesh - Part 2 . . .
c. 1999, Miriam M. WynnMark stood naked in a black trench coat against a glaring white backdrop, the skylight above shining down onto his black hair. Sophia had arranged a perfect vertical rectangle from his neck to his feet; his arms were raised as if her were in flight, or perhaps falling. His face hung down, hidden and angled by shadows, and at his bare feet twisted the pale arms of a hired model, a young woman with extraordinarily swanlike limbs. Her pale skin contrasted with the olive, gaunt look of Mark's own flesh, and her face stared into the camera.
"I'm cold," Mark muttered, and he lifted his eyes to grin at her. Irritated, Sophia gestured for him to lower his head.
"Stop moving, this girl is two hundred bucks an hour. I'm almost done." The girl stretched sinuously and then rearranged herself; Mark lowered his head again and waited for the camera. The shutter went off several times, and then Sophia stood back, heaving a sigh of relief.
"Thanks Anita, that was great. That's it then, you can get dressed; I'll meet you at the door in a minute."
"Alright, thank you." The girl's heavy French accent made her words nearly unintelligible, and she glided off to the bathroom to make herself presentable.
As Sophia stood winding the film and bustling around the room to push around odds and ends, Mark pulled the trench coat closed and watched her working. He stepped down from the dais and smiled, watching Sophia as she focused on arranging the next background.
"Mark, here, you'll just be nude on the sheets, I've been planning this one mentally for a while now and we've got the perfect light today, so hurry up--"
"Mademoiselle?" Anita's voice questioned as she stood waiting by the door.
"Oh, right, right!" Sophia hurried to a table to rifle through her purse; the pre-written check simply waited for the amount. She finished filling it out and tore it off, handing it to the young woman. "Here you go. Thanks!" The girl gave a pouty, sophisticated smile and sauntered out.
"Glad she's gone." Mark shuddered in his trench coat in exaggerated displeasure. "Her hands were like ice."
Sophia grinned, then waved her hands at him. "Come on, come on, let's go get the mattress in the bedroom."
The angel's wings spread across Mark's back, white like the sheets he lay on. His head faced down, his neck arched slightly down over the edge of the corner of the mattress; he looked dead or sleeping.
"Turn your head a little. I want a hint of your face--to me, to the light."
Mark complied, lifting his lashes to watch her move around him, fussing at sheets, at the position of his legs, her hands soft and gliding over his rear to puff the sheets at the parting of his thighs.
"A little prudish, aren't you?"
"We'll reveal that later. Right now, you're an angel, not a sexual object. You haven't fallen yet."
"Who will I fall with then? Anita?" He spoke into the sheets.
"No, she's too pale. We need somebody robust and dark, like you." Not my type, she thought, and stared at the back of his head for a moment. She had never imagined that she would be talking to someone like him, someone who looked so like her memories.
"What about you?" Silence. "I'm flirting with you, Sofi."
She blinked in surprise, catching herself frozen, and went back to arranging. Frowning a little, she said calmly, "I know. I wish you wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Just don't. Just work."
"I'm getting tired of 'just work.'"
"Yeah, well did you come to work or to seduce me?" Sophia stood next to him, her booted foot by his face, one hand on her hip while the other supported the camera hanging from her neck.
"Both." He grinned up at her slyly, and she shook her head, her feet turning, moving out of his line of sight.
"I thought you were over her?" Vincent sipped on his coffee and frowned at her. "Aren't you working with someone else now? Aren't you making progress?"
"We are . . . " Vincent raised his eyebrows at the plural, and she hastily added, "I am! I just . . . She's on my mind a lot."
"Have you got anything ready?"
Sophia nodded, sipping her own espresso. She looked out at the streets of San Francisco, the cool mid-spring that was usually her best time of year. "Yes--three pictures. Marlene loved them. I'm sure we can do more, I just can't wait any more, I can't--"
"Look, if you love her, go. Confront her then! Get her out of your system. I'm just glad that now you realize you can work without her. Just be careful, alright?"
"I will. Of course I will."
Sophia sat in front of the coffeehouse in her car, staring at the people coming in and out of the building. None of them were Rachel.
Lifting her camera, she began to take pictures--of the sign over the door, the painted windows, the patio tables and chairs on the sidewalk. If this did not go well--she would still have mementos. She finally put away the camera and got out of the car, afraid, but knowing it was time. It had been three months since she had seen Rachel, and she could not wait anymore.
The stairs to the apartments above the shop were steeply inclined and the walls were stucco, painted white. Sophia's hands slid up the wide walls, the thick low walled railing, holding on for support, and when she finally reached the top she stood there for at least twenty minutes, unable to reach out and open the door. Inside was a short hallway, with three doors. Two led to apartments, and the other likely led to the back alley, or a store room. She had not thought to ask Mark which apartment his sister was in.
She was saved the trouble of figuring it out by the sound of Rachel singing--the left apartment door was open, a screen door letting a breeze and the smell of cooking food waft into the hallway. She raised her hand and knocked lightly. Rachel stopped singing and called out.
"Yeah?"
"Rachel?" Sophia stood a foot or so from the screen door and stared into the living room of the apartment, seeing nothing but a couch and some chairs.
"Who calls?" Rachel sauntered into view wearing a bikini top and jean shorts. She was holding a cooking spoon and stopped in her tracks when she saw Sophia. Her face held no expression.
"Me. Sophia." Sophia spoke softly, unable to do anything but drink Rachel in--Rachel had grown an inch or two, she wore her hair, longer now, piled on top of her head. She looked older, wiser, more beautiful than ever.
"What are you doing here?" Rachel's voice seemed careful, as if she did not want to be cruel, as if she knew she had to be careful with Sophia. Sophia's hand reached out on its own and touched the screen, trying to make contact with skin that was fifteen feet away, glowing and no longer hers.
"I wanted to talk to you. I had questions to ask. You left--"
"Yeah, well, this isn't my house. I can't invite you in."
"That's alright. Fine, we can talk downstairs, can't we? Have some coffee?"
Rachel waved the spoon around absentmindedly and shrugged. "I thought you drank tea?"
Sophia smiled. "I do. But . . . if there's nothing else."
Rachel sighed, and moved out of sight. "Fine. Just for fifteen minutes though. I've got a casserole in the oven."
Sophia was conscious that she was staring at Rachel, but she couldn't help it. There was a time when Rachel would shine under that stare, would blossom and flirt and stretch like a cat under the sun, but now she scowled faintly over her cup of coffee, stirring it repeatedly with a red stirring straw.
"So, what's this about?" Rachel sipped the coffee and then set it down, returning to stirring it.
"You, actually. The pictures . . .everything."
"Look, I know Mark told you everything anyway, so--what's there to say?"
"He didn't tell me 'everything'. He told me how you ended up in my life. That you were just supposed to keep his place. But--I wanted to hear from you why you lied. Why you stayed. Why you left--"
"That's easy enough isn't it?" Rachel leaned forward, narrowing her eyes, dark brown and fierce as always. "I came for the hell of it. You decided on me, and you got what you wanted. It was fun while it lasted. You shouldn't be complaining, now should you? You got your dirty little pictures and I--"
"Dirty? You think my work is dirty?" Sophia's eyes widened, and she leaned back, disbelieving. "I thought you understood--"
"I understand!" Rachel lifted her slender hand, waved at the windows, her voice rolling with derision. "You wanted a girl, a little girl. Barely legal. I gave you that, your little fantasy! And you got to manipulate my body into whatever pose you wanted, right? That's what you wanted--how does this work out to me hurting you?" Customers nearby looked over, their faces confused and concerned.
Sophia leaned in closer, whispering, her voice terse. "Listen to me Sophia--I never wanted you that way! I wanted a muse, for my art, not for sex! And if anyone instigated that part of it, it was you!"
"Bullshit. You're a fucking lesbian, admit it." Rachel tossed her hair over her shoulder and lifted her chin to look out the window.
"If I'm one, then you're as guilty." Sophia spoke low, her voice trembling. She stared at Rachel and her eyes rose and fell to touch on her love's nose, ears, eyebrows, shoulders, and everywhere else as she spoke. Her face grew darker with each word.
"Your mouth started it, your hands, your eager little body. And now you're doing it again, with whoever lives upstairs. It doesn't matter who you do it with, does it? So long as you have your way, get what you want? It didn't matter to you that the whole time I thought it was real--couldn't you have at least been up front and honest and told me you were a liar and a bitch?"
Hurt, angry, she was amazed to find herself so full of anger against the one person she had ever loved like this, so stupidly, so needfully. Sophia rose, pushing her chair back. She stared down at Rachel, feeling tears begin to fill her eyes, burning with tears and realization. Everyone had been right--all of them, and she had still refused to listen.
"I love you, no matter how fucked up you are. And I'm sorry that you're a mess. I thought that we could work. I thought--Jesus Christ, I don't know what I thought!" Sophia lurched away, out the side door and down the side street, disoriented and forgetting about the car, forgetting about her purse.
Behind her footsteps pounded on the sidewalk, caught up with her--Rachel's hand grabbed onto her arm, yanked her back, pulled them face to face.
"Sophia! Sophia, not like this, I'm sorry!" Rachel's face was red, but she did not cry; she handed Sophia her purse and watched Sophia work to pull herself together.
"Sophia, I know what I look like to you, I know I'm awful--but I do care for you! I--"
"Fuck you! You fucking used me, like you use everybody else, and I didn't listen to anybody, and even when I worried it wouldn't last, I just hoped--I just thought we could--"
Rachel's hands pulled her head to hers, their faces close and hot, and Sophia droppd her purse, squeezing the hands on either side of her face tightly, not knowing whether to push Rachel away or pull her close. They stood huddled on the sidewalk.
"Sophia, listen--listen to me . . ." Rachel breathed hard, her face working, her mouth trembling, but still her face remained smooth, almost impartial, only a slight flush revealing that she had any emotion at all for anyone else besides herself. "I didn't mean for it to happen like this . . . you seemed to need me so badly and I . . . and I'm sorry about the sex part, if you didn't want to--"
"But I did! I didn't when I met you but I don't regret it, but I gave myself to you, and the whole time you knew it and you didn't give yourself to me, and how can you call me names, my work dirty, when the only person I've ever been with is you?" Sophia turned her face away, humiliated by the truth. She had not ever actually told Rachel about her abstinence.
"What?" Rachel pulled her head back to look at her, and when Sophia did not answer, she squeezed her arms. "You're a virgin? I'm your first?"
"Not-not a virgin. I did once, and it was bad, but does that matter? I chose you. My only lover. I didn't want anybody before you and . . . Does it matter if I'm straight or gay, bi or--"
"It matters if you want it to. Are you gay? I don't know. I thought you were because . . . because of how things looked. But whether you are or not, that's for you to decide. You have to find out for yourself. I didn't mean to decide for you." Rachel now stood back from her, her hands in her pockets, her face tight, strained. Sophia looked up at the trees, at anything but her.
"Look, I don't love you. That's the truth. You were kind to me and . . . and you showed me things. You showed me tea, and you made beautiful art out of me, and you took care of me, and it's not like I don't give a shit. It's not like that doesn't matter."
"You could have said something, anything, instead of just leaving."
"What was I supposed to do? You disappeared, wouldn't answer my calls. Mark showed up, angry at me for what I'd done and I couldn't fend him off anymore. I'd made another mess--it was better to just go, so I did! And I'm sorry . . . maybe it's better if I'm just the bitch that fucked you up, I don't know . . . "
Sophia breathed deep, finally able to turn her eyes to Rachel. Rachel stood awkwardly, her hands still in her pockets, and her face finally showed signs of dismay at what she had done. Sophia understood, finally, that it was time to let go.
"No." Sophia gave Rachel a wistful, bleeding smile. "You're just the bitch I love."
Rachel smiled weakly at that, and reached out, came close, bringing her own face close for a moment. Her lips hovered over Sophia's, then gave them a gentle, featherlight kiss.
"I'm so sorry, for everything. But I'm grateful for what you've done for me. I drink tea now. I do a lot of things differently now, because of you." Rachel gave her another wan smile, her voice thick with a hint of emotion.
Sophia closed her eyes, hearing Rachel's voice, memorizing the sound of it, the words. When she opened her eyes, she was also smiling again, softly, her face still haunted, but a little clearer now, no longer tortured, not yet serene. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded like a sigh of surrender.
"Goodbye, Rachel." She let go. Her hands pulled away from Rachel's arms and hair, unwilling as she was to let that flesh, that brilliant, vibrant flesh, from her fingers. She picked up her purse, then turned around, and began to walk. She kept her back straight, her eyes staring ahead. Tears, silent as the day she'd fallen hard on roller-skates, silent as they'd been for many years now, rolled down her face. They were finally free to fall, she could say goodbye to this, and when she heard Rachel's voice behind her, she did not respond at all.
"Bye, Sophia."
"How did it go?" Vincent's voice was careful on the phone. Sophia pressed her face to the glass of her apartment window, staring out at the view of San Francisco, this one more modest than her studio's. The glass was cold and it helped to chill her burning face. She had cried nonstop since she'd gotten home.
"Not right now, I can't . . ."
"I understand. Do you need anything? Do I go beat her up?"
"Shut up Vincent. Just--just give me a few days. A week, a month, hell, I don't know. I'll call you . . . when I'm up to it, okay?"
"Alright. Take care--I love you."
"I love you, too."
"You saw her again?" Mark stood over her at a café near her apartment and she looked up, startled.
"What?"
He made himself comfortable in the seat across from her and nodded to the dessert bar nearby. "I come here for the blueberry muffins."
Sophia looked at him sidelong and took a sip of her tea. "I'm not sure I believe you."
"Me either." Mark's smile was wide; bright teeth flashed at her and she felt disconcerted; she'd gotten used to crying in darkness. She looked away, found comfort by unfocusing her eyes on a patch of her dark corduroy pants. She sipped more of her tea.
"Sorry to cancel these past few days. Business problems."
"Bullshit. What'd she say?" He settled back in his chair and nodded for a waiter to come over. He ordered a latte and a blueberry muffin.
"Mark, maybe we shouldn't--"
"You still don't trust me, do you?" He leaned in close, his voice suddenly intimate, and she refocused her eyes on him, lifting her tea to put something between them.
"We're business associates, nothing more--"
"Sad eyes do echo long nights weeping, reaching, never finding," he murmured, and his hand, previously on the table, was suddenly touching the side of her face, tracing her temple. She pulled back, staring at him. She dropped her hand beneath the table to find her purse.
"Where's that from?" Her voice was slow, wary.
Mark shrugged, gave a mild grin. "The air. Nowhere."
"A quote?"
He shook his head. "Nowhere, Sophia. Doesn't mean anything. Sorry if I scared you there, just nonsense. It just seemed to fit your state of mind."
Sophia slowly brought her hand back up to the table. "Well, it was nice, whatever it was." She frowned. "Am I that obvious?"
Mark smiled and nodded, then leaned back for the waiter to put down his coffee and muffin. "So when do we start work?"
"I don't know if-"
"Wasting time, Sofie. Now or never."
It was early afternoon; it had taken her the rest of the later morning to finish setting up for the shots. Bright sunlight streaked across the floor, touched her fingers, her lashes. She felt a little closer to peace, just a little, felt the hint of magic in the room that she was trying to gain control of again. Through her lens she caught dust motes, refracting light, hints of shadow in crevices and across the mounds and hills of a male body.
He was splayed across the bed mattress again, his sex now fully visible, white sheets rumpled around him. An antique wine bottle was slung in his hand, a false dribble of liquid painted flowing from his lips to the bottom of his chin, seemingly onto the sheets. She would add that in later. His wings were beneath him, stained with a few lipstick prints. His hair was tousled; his lips were red with kissing and drinking; his body glowed with sin and his lashes lay thick and sooty against his cheeks in sleep.
The sleeping angel--or the one that was dead from excess--opened his eyes and spoke directly into the camera lens that was mere inches away from his face.
"So who do I fall with? You never answered the question."
"I told you, somebody--"
"Dark and robust like me," he finished for her, staring with an odd intensity directly into her eyes.
She ignored it. "Right. Now hold still--"
"And I said, what about you?" His eyes stared up at her into the camera. They were wide, and dark, and she saw that his lips were parted as if he were going to kiss her through the camera itself.
"No thank you." She eased away, and began calculating f-stops and focal length, while Mark blinked his lids slowly, as if sleepy. He stared at her, watching how she fidgeted with her camera.
"It would be so easy to kiss you," he said, not moving from his place. "So easy to part your limbs and ravish you, make those sad eyes happy." He spoke slowly, carefully, so that she knew he was not playing around, and that he was not crazy either. She started, and he continued to watch her, patiently and without moving. The cadence of his speech and the words sounded like song lyrics. "You've never been like this with a man before, have you?"
"Been like what?" Panicked, she passed the right settings on the camera and had to go back. She tried to sound nonchalant. "I work with naked men all the time."
"I mean . . . nervous. You are nervous, aren't you? You're fiddling with your camera. That's not like you--always so calm, or at least you used to be. I want to know the woman Rachel knew, the Sophia spread naked and sweet on cotton sheets, innocent, and lost. But only so lost as the sea of another's arms will let her be. You should trust me."
"Mark--stop talking like that, it's weird."
She looked down at him, and saw that he still had not moved. There was something beautiful about the way he remained prone, submissive almost, on his back and simply talking to her with a suggestive candor that made her uncomfortable and claustrophobic. He should not feel threatening to her at all lying like that, but she felt her chest tightening, her breath catching, reminding her . . . .
"Are you attracted to me?" Her eyes flew up from the camera to meet his, and he grinned sharply. "I think you are. Rachel says you were awkward, when she touched you. As if you'd never been touched that way at all. If it was because she was a woman--and I think there's more to it than that--there's nothing wrong with enjoying it. If you're gay, you're gay. But if you like men too . . . I think you ought to explore it."
"All we're here to explore is art--"
"Who will I fall with, Sofi?" His voice was soft, husky, and she pulled her eyes from the camera to his again. "Who could bring the intensity and eroticism you want to the paper? Who could feel as well as show?"
"That's what models are for."
"That's what you are for."
"Ok, maybe we've had enough for today--"
"Not if I've got anything to say about it." He sounded more direct now, but he continued to lay with his back on the mattress, eyes heavy on her. Sophia sighed and looked around; her eyes she caught the desk and made a beeline for it, then sat down on it.
"I thought I was the boss, Mark?"
"You are. But sometimes even the boss needs a little persuasion." He smiled sweetly at her and she shook her head.
"What do you want?" Sophia asked, frustrated suddenly at his persistence, finding herself still at a loss for air. She took a deep breath, let it out quietly, so he wouldn't notice. But then she remembered the words that just came out of her mouth and looked up quickly. She shouldn't invite him to tell her anything he wanted. "No no, nevermind, I know what you want--"
"Too late!"
He vaulted up powerfully from the mattress and moved toward her in his angel's wings, tall and naked and dark with beautiful stained feathers at his back. His eyes seared into her, the space between them was disappearing quickly, and it was all she could do to stand. She felt as if she were choking, as if she couldn't breathe--the closer he got, the more she felt this way. I want you . . . she remembered that hand on her cheek, gentle, the later grip demanding and scary, and running away, far away, shattered, having learned something too soon, far too soon . . .
"Do I frighten you, Sofi? Does this scare you? Me, naked?" He stopped a few feet away from her and watched her face, saw how she would not look at him or any part of his body. "Aroused? Male? If you only like women this shouldn't matter to you, Sophia. You shouldn't be shaking, like leaves, like petals in wind, as if you're about to fall apart."
"I'm not--"
"Come here." He said it calmly, and she was amazed that he actually expected her to obey him. He took a step toward her and just before she could slip away, he took her by the arm.
"I'll scream, I swear." She drew in her breath at his touch, firm and gentle on her forearm. He held her through her long sleeved shirt, but she could feel his heat as if the cloth were not there.
"No you won't." His eyes were terrible, kind, hot, they seared into her unnaturally and guided her with his feet insistent behind hers to a mirror hanging on the other side of the studio. In the afternoon light, he forced her to look at herself, at him. I want you, Sophia, I want you . . . An empty street of houses, trees blowing in a beachside wind, no one hearing her scream, and giving up, giving up because she had no choice-
Beneath Mark's hands she was stiff and tense. He forced her to look in the mirror anyway. "There. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." She struggled a little in his grasp, but he wouldn't let her go, and she settled, silent, malleable. The way she had the first time. No choice. She'd never had a chance to tell him no, to explain, to escape . . . She stared into the mirror and heard his voice in her ear, strong, firm, making another point, persistent, never letting up. All the while, behind it, another set of words, a rhythm heavy as a heartbeat, ugly, beautiful, in her ear.
"Whatever it is you think you lost when you lost Rachel--it's not gone. Whatever it is you're looking for in your art, you'll find it--with or without me. I'm not saying I'm the key. I'm saying that what you need is inside of you, and you haven't failed. You can still make beautiful art! Whatever it is you want to do, you can do--" She stared at herself in the mirror, saw the lines and large sad eyes in a face that had barely bothered to look in a mirror in months. She looked disturbingly young. Twelve. Mark looked at her over the top of her head and shook her gently. He turned her around, faced her. She stood half willing, have frightened in his grip, and felt relieved of the pressure when he let his hands slide from her upper arms.
"I'll admit right now that I know more about you than I should. I planned for so long just to meet you, just to chance that you would want me in this room, in your life. I wanted to meet the maker of such incredible art. I was so pissed at Rachel-she was lucky to have you, to know you, she fucked it up with lies, games. And she hurt you-and I want what she had from you, but because of her I might not have it." He backed away, ran his hand through his hair.
Sophia stared up at him, oddly suspended, floating, nothing really making sense, yet his intensity, his purity, so like his sister's, so full of fire and passion, knocked at a door, pounded, threatened . . . She did not want to answer it. He stared down at her as he spoke, and her eyes caught the scar by his mouth, the mole on his jaw, the nimble and graceful fingers of his hand as it sank into his hair. She shook her head, tried to find reason. His wings flared behind him as if he would curse her and all she stood for and leave her behind, lift off of the earth and burst through the atmosphere, take flight.
"I think you should go." Sophia sidled away from him, and crossed her arms, hiding behind them. She felt her eyes drawn to the tips of his wings, and fought an urge to reach out and touch them.
"Sophia--" She shook her head in denial. His face was filled with disappointment. He turned away, moved to find his clothes. She found herself speaking, challenging him, when she had meant to stay silent.
"What makes you think you know anything about me? How can you think you know me, what I want, what I need--who do you think you are? I barely know you--we aren't friends, we aren't anything!" His face, when he turned back from picking up his pants, was closed. His expression was serene and confident. She felt betrayed, defeated. He has stolen my face-I used to be that!
"I've seen every one of your works, Sophia. I know who you are-the artist can't help but put themselves into their art. You and I are artists. I speak poetry to you hoping you'll listen to me but I'm beginning to think you never will."
"I can't--" Sophia gestured weakly, but couldn't explain. Half of her wanted to say, "I can't handle this," and the other wanted to touch him, maybe hug him, feel as if it could trust him. He finished for her.
"Of course, I get the point." He reached backward and roughly yanked away the taped wings, wincing at the pain. He tossed them to the bed and began pulling on his clothes.
"You can't love, you can't work, you can't exist, you can't live--you can't be anything, do anything. What's the point of all the work we've done? What's the point of the photos if you don't care about them? You won't care about them like you did when they were of Rachel--you won't ever love anything or anyone like that again, so who am I fooling?"
Mark stood breathing hard, but his face was like a stone, no longer open, no longer seeking. His eyes glittered, black and judgemental, and she felt as if he'd stamped her with all his disappointment and frustration. Guilty. She felt guilty as she had crying on the grass on the hillside, lost.
"I wanted to be your masterpiece--and I wanted to make you mine." He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "But I guess I should have known better than to try and get somewhere with damaged goods." Mark disappeared beyond the door without a backward glance.
As she had when she had lost Rachel, Sophia sat with the pictures on her screen and spent hours, days, manipulating the images. She caressed the side of Mark's thigh, his hair, with tools, with colors; she warped and enhanced and erased and textured; the images were electric and haunting--a brutal angel lurked across her screen, burnt his eyes into hers, made the pages of her finished prints steam with intensity.
She was afraid. She had examined them all this way and that, had torn them apart and put them back together, and each time she found that she had almost captured it. That this man had given to her camera everything she had wanted from him. Only this time what was missing seemed to be on her end. She remembered Rachel's nonchalance, her disdain of the camera, the frequent times she had lain sprawled and lolling about bored, ignoring many of Sophia's instructions, and how Sophia had had to deliberately pick up a body part to get it where she wanted it to be. Sophia had been submissive but not willing; there had been no joy or interaction in her surrender to the camera. In every one of Mark's appearances he delivered every possible message that he could convey, that she would let him convey.
Maybe this isn't for me anymore. Maybe I should just retire, open up a gallery or something. It's over. I don't have any more time, people are forgetting me--the industry has been moving on, has left me in the dust, I've been wasting so much time . . .
Or maybe not. What was wrong with having pride in her work? So Rachel was not in them, but that did not mean they were worthless. She needed to let go, to move on, and this was part of it, right? She picked up the phone.
"Good afternoon, Marlene speaking."
"Marlene?"
"Sophia! What can I do for you?" Marlene's voice was wary, as if prepared for bad news.
"I've got something for you to look at."
"I've got to say, these are really shocking! The images make your eyes sensitive, they burn you . . ." Marlene fingered the prints, moved through them, pausing on each one.
"That's got a lot to do with the model." Sophia sat back in a chair in front of Marlene's desk and waited, tapping her foot on the carpet.
"Mark, right? Wow, he's really . . . stunning." Marlene's eyes lifted for a moment in thought to Sophia's face, then dropped back down. "Are you sleeping with him?"
"No!" She said it too quickly; she tried to cover with a half-laugh but her nervousness was obvious. "Well . . . no. Some flirting, but . . . I don't think so. Not this one."
"Not this one?" Marlene looked at her with a raised eyebrow and a wry smile. "Or not yet?"
Sophia did not answer but watched Marlene make her way through the rest of the pile. There were twelve shots, all of them of Mark with wings in various symbolic scenes and poses.
Marlene spoke as she looked at the work. "I don't mean to pry but I think it's kind of obvious that he . . . that Mark has something going on with the camera more so than the typical model, if you get my meaning. But it's good, whatever it is. It makes for some really intense visuals. But I think you need something more--something more real, more candid. This is lacking something. You're usual clarity isn't here, this seems more . . . hazy."
"Hazy?" Sophia leaned forward, her eyes on the prints, trying to understand what Marlene meant. Maybe this is what's wrong--if I can fix this, there's hope.
"I don't know, maybe it's what you're going for but--" Marlene looked up directly from the photos into Sophia's eyes. "It looks like he's reaching, searching for something. I'm expecting that by the end of the series, he'd have gotten what he wanted."
Sophia fell back in her chair and absorbed it, her eyes out of focus on nowhere. In her mind flashed images of Mark reaching literally for flesh, for a limb, someone's breast, thigh . . . . She lifted her eyes to Marlene's and spoke softly in realization.
"Michael must fall."
Marlene's nod was firm. "Exactly."
Sophia and Vincent sat at a cozy dinner in a small family-owned Italian restaurant downtown; the night was still early and they were just starting the main course. Vincent crunched on his garlic bread while listening to Sophia reason things out.
"I don't know if he'll even come back. I have his number, but I don't want to . . . he may not want to have anything to do with me, you know?"
Vincent nodded and gestured for her to drink her wine. He spoke around garlic bread, "Is there something going on between you two?"
Sophia grimaced and bit into her own bread. "He thinks there is. Past tense, I mean. I just know that when I'm around him he scares me half to death. That and he pisses me off. He has this way of getting under my skin."
"Sounds like a romance novel." Vincent wiggled his eyebrows dramatically.
"Yeah, well this is real life." She rolled her eyes at him and forked up some rigatoni.
"So Marlene wants completion of the series." Vincent wanted to get to something and Sophia could tell by how focused he was on the topic.
"Yeah, and me too. I did mean for us to go further but then we . . . "
"Broke up?" Vincent grinned at her over his fettuccini and she stuck her tongue out at him.
"Gimme a break."
"Why should I? If this is the chance for you to fall in love with someone good, for real, to fall hard and nasty and scrape your knees up and get messy--" Sophia winced at the image, "I mean proper messy, not pathetic messy like that Rachel business--then it's my job to harass you into making the right decision."
"And what's that?"
"Follow your heart. Or your pants. Whichever is loudest."
It had occurred to her to look him up as a poet--just on the off-chance she might find him. She hadn't expected to find him in the bookstore, but when she did, she was unable to lift the book off the shelf. There were two slender volumes, and one larger one; the eldest looked like it was from the 1980's, the other two more recent. His name was modestly lettered on the spine of all three, the titles larger and straightforward, no fancy fonts or overbearing bolds. They were: Night Falls, Warring Souls, and, Self. The largest was the first, and she guessed it was probably an anthology of all his initial work. Her raised hand trembled over the books and fell again to her side. Self seemed the most recent; it was white with black lettering and it looked newer and less dusty.
"Miss? Can I help you?" The shopkeeper, having a slow day, hovered at her shoulder.
"Um--yeah. Could you wrap that one up please--it's a gift." Sophia pointed to the last book, unable to touch it.
The gift sat unopened on the settee at the foot of her bed for days; she dreaded getting a call from Marlene asking her about her progress but still edged around the gift box to and from the bed, pretending it wasn't there and knowing that she would eventually have to touch it, open it, and read it. She did not tell Vincent about Mark the published poet, or the book that sat waiting like a death sentence at the end of her bed, a constant reminder of an impending execution. She could not open the book, let alone share its existence with anyone else.
She had picked this one not because it was the most recent, but because of its title. This one would expose in detail the inner workings, dreams, and passions, of the writer. Like the self-portrait, it would display the artist's soul for all to see. She wasn't sure she was ready.
It was late Spring when she finally sat down on the floor next to the settee and pulled the box into her lap. There on the floor she undid the bow, pulled off the top of the box, lifted off a bit of gift tissue, and stared down at the cover. It did not carry a damning, angelic face; it did not laugh at her. She reached down, and traced her finger along the edge. Nothing happened. Slowly, she took the book out of its resting place and lifted it; in the air, it weighed almost nothing; she had expected it to weigh a ton.
She turned the page. The title again. Then another: copyright, acknowledgments. Another: the title. And a last: the dedication.
To all artists seeking what you are in your work: May your journey be hardy and rewarding; may you find all that you look for.
"Hello?"
Sophia heard his voice and held her breath for a moment, then realized he'd likely hang up. "Hello? Mark?" There was a long silence before a short reply.
"Sophia. Yes, it's me."
She couldn't tell if he was displeased or not. "I--I have a proposition."
His voice was wry on the other end. "Really? Let me guess."
"Please--don't be like that."
"Like what?" He sounded honestly curious to know what she thought.
"Cold. Disdainful. Are you really disgusted by me? Because maybe then I shouldn't--"
"I'm not disgusted by you." He said it heavily, as if sad she thought so.
"Well--good." She took a breath. "I need to finish the premise. Michael--
the angel--has done almost everything, but we still haven't--"
"I will on one condition."
Sophia closed her eyes and crossed her fingers, hoping against hope he wouldn't say it. "What's that?"
"I make you dinner. Or the other way around. Either way, we talk, like normal people, outside of that godforsaken studio."
It wasn't what she had expected--she'd thought he'd want worse, but this didn't seem so bad. She nodded, then realized he couldn't see her. "Yeah--yeah, sure. My place then--I'll . . . make something."
Lupita was as dark and robust as they came, her voluptuous figure folded around and within that of Mark's, her dusky skin a dark honey gold against his tanned olive. The nearly matched tones melded against crimson sheets; to play with colors Sophia made them stretch across loosely tangled sheets of yellow, white, and a brilliant cobalt blue. Lupita's lips parted to bare her teeth against Mark's ankle, hinting at taking him down by his ultimate weakness; her lipstick smudged itself across his shoulder, his cheek, his wings.
Lupita had a glorious mane of rich black hair that had been a major influence in Sophia's choice; the hair was arranged around and across Mark's groin so that he looked both innocently protected in his nakedness by her and sinfully debauched in being naked with her. His eyes, shadowed and downcast, seemed ashamed, boyish, and deceptively humble. But one hand was around Lupita's breast; the other flung loosely outward mere inches away from a spilled gourd.
The flash of Sophia's camera snapped madly; the film went, spools and spools of it; days passed, hours, weeks, forever went by until Lupita's final pose had her astride Mark, a flash of light above her, her face terrified and exultant at the same time. She reached for God, yet God did not want her; she saw his anger and though the left arm reached, aching, the right arched with the hand face down, as if burned. One shot had her looking down toward the angel for help or explanation as this happened, another had her gazing up, chastised and fearful.
The angel gazed up beneath her without regret; he relished his fall and looked serenely up at heaven as God's wrath made its way down to him. Where Lupita look down at him for security, he looked at her benignly, distantly, as if her fate were sealed and there were nothing he could do--or would want to do--to help her.
"You've been working hard." Mark stood naked in the middle of the room as it was his habit to do after the session, disregarding the bathroom a few feet away and opting to dress in the open instead. Odd and discomfiting as it was, Sophia had grown somewhat used to it, though she still turned her eyes away when he did so.
"We've been working hard. Lupita's exhausted. But that's the last--she's going home with a fat paycheck." Sophia looked down at her desk and then gathered up her film.
"You look tired, too. Time to go?" His voice was quiet, as it had been these past weeks, gentle with her in a way it had not been before. She felt safer when he spoke this way to her, almost as if he were more careful, and this way she could feel more certain of his intentions. She knew he still wanted more from her than she was willing to give--but now things seemed more tolerable.
"Mmm." She nodded, putting things away, and then set to cleaning up the kitchen--they'd wrecked it with an impromptu afternoon snack blizzard.
"You still owe me dinner."
Sophia looked up at him from the counter in surprise. "I totally forgot!"
Mark nodded at her from the other side, smiling. "I know. But I didn't. When did you want--"
"Tomorrow night. To celebrate. How's eight?" Sophia cut him off, already calculating quickly in her head how she would handle things. Mark seemed surprised and she realized she must look eager.
"Fine." He stood without saying anything else for a long moment, then cleared his throat. She looked up. "Your address?"
Sophia smirked, then feigned shock. "You mean to tell me you don't know where I live? That's a first."
"Is that a joke, Sophia?" He gave her a smile.
"Yes. Yes it is. Eight o'clock, sharp!"
There were servings of chicken roasting in the oven, vegetables simmering on the stove, and a cobbler was ready to go in right after the chicken. A risotto stood by, almost ready to serve, and when the doorbell rang Sophia looked as if she had not madly tried to get her act together and harassed Vincent for cooking tips over the phone just a few hours earlier.
"Hi," she greeted Mark, and he gave her a short bow, then proffered her a bottle of wine.
"Hi. I knew you wouldn't take flowers." She smiled and took the bottle, nodding at the label.
"Merlot. I like."
"Me too." He followed her into the living room and trailed her to the kitchen, smiling to see another counter island set up like the one in her studio kitchen.
"Like home, huh?"
"Yup." She nodded, then set the bottle down on the counter, rummaging the kitchen drawers for an opener.
"Smells good. You cooked it?"
"Yes, I cooked it!" She gave him a cocky glance then popped the cork from the wine and grabbed two glasses.
"Monsieur," she saluted, and she handed him his own glass. "Let's eat."
Dinner was strange, but not as threatening as she had expected it to be. Over her wine, Sophia realized that she was out of her element; she had rarely had a man over for dinner before, and the few she had were men she'd felt nothing much for. They had been "necessity" dates--men set up to meet her through friends neither of them could disappoint. They'd given it a go--slightly nervous, uncomfortable small talk, a short dinner, and swift, awkward goodbyes.
Mark sat across from her at the smaller-sized dining room table, his skin glowing under the candles and lowered lamplight, his lips slick with wine. As they talked, she had frequent images of him as Michael, in dozens of possible images, glorious variations on a vivid, hypnotic theme--the fallen angel: innocent, roguish, triumphant, proud, spoiled, cowardly, charming . . . the list went on and on in her head, images of him biting into eager hips, bellies, shoulders; his tongue sliding across a chin, an ear, a nipple. Body parts, all of them were sexual images of bodies, limbs, wings and jet black hair, a pair of jet black eyes, thick black lashes. She was amazed that she could use him as a model to explore the flesh so intensely, when she had avoided it before. Somehow, connections had happened on the other end of the lens; at least with her camera in her hands, she was not afraid to look too closely at a male body anymore.
While lost in these images she found herself expressing internal thoughts she hadn't meant to say. "You look nothing like your sister."
Mark nodded, took a bite of his second helping of chicken. "We're not blood relatives. Step-siblings."
"Mm. Did you live together at all?"
"Yeah, a few years. She was always running away from home though. The last time she left, I'd gone to college, and that was that."
"Dessert?" For some reason, Sophia did not want to hear any more about Rachel. She ignored Mark's raised eyebrow and stood, gesturing to his plate. He let her take it, and she moved into the kitchen, talking to him from across the counter.
"Blackberry cobbler, with vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate fudge if you like."
"My God, you want to get me fat, don't you?"
Sophia smiled at him before pulling the cobbler, just finished, out of the oven. "And then I'll cook you."
He turned the tables on her during dessert.
Swollen and lazy with warm cobbler and melted ice cream, Sophia did not expect to feel his hand on hers or his eyes suddenly so much closer than they had been. A little sleepy from the wine and subdued from all the food, she frowned a little and looked up at him, trying to figure out what he was up to.
"Mark?"
"Sophia, play some music. I want to dance with you."
"But I thought you said dinner--"
"This is dinner. Put on some jazz. I want to hear a piano. Spanish guitar if you have any."
The music felt too sexy, but he wouldn't let her change the song; she happened to like Latin jazz and the Spanish guitar was exactly what came trilling out of the speakers.
"Light the fire, Sofi." Mark stood watching her from a place by the windows, and oddly enough, she obeyed, setting a log in the fireplace and lighting it. When it was going strong, Mark moved to meet her in front of it, and he took her hands, brought them to his hips.
"Dance with me," he whispered, and she looked up at him and felt no desire to push him away. She stood perfectly still for a moment, at an exact distance, trying to get used to their closeness. She let him hold her, let him push her across the floor, a few steps around the front of the fireplace, further away, to the windows, and back again. She did not really know how to dance, but that didn't matter; they moved fine across her floor, fine in an embrace she had been convinced would be physically dangerous.
"Mark, I don't want--" He cut her off as though they were in the middle of another conversation.
"I won't say that whatever you felt for Rachel wasn't real. I wouldn't want to replace her. But I want to be more than that."
Sophia shook her head. "I can't have that in my life, I don't--"
"I think you're afraid to trust again. That's basically it." She stared past his shoulder, thinking of the real reason why she was afraid. "You gave yourself and you were hurt. But look: you and I have hurt one another an equal amount, I think. So aren't we perfect for each other?"
"Maybe we--"
"Let me talk to you, ok? Let me try to serenade you, without arguing, without hurting one another. Let me make love to you with poetry, if you never let me any closer than that. That's pretty close, don't you think? That's just like making love?"
"Yes." Involuntarily, she answered. It was whispered from the same heart that had read his Self, that had understood his voyage, his losses, his triumphs declared in poetry, a self-portrait so much braver than anything she had ever done. She had never dared to go that far, to expose that much. She'd been afraid to knock on the door, afraid that someone strange, overpowering, would be on the other side of it.
"You understand me, then? Can I make poetry out of you, like you will make art out of me?"
"Yes."
"Tell me what you want, then, Sofi, tell me everything . . ."
I want nothing, I want everything, I want to surrender, to be overtaken, to overtake and conquer, to be loved, to love . . . I want to find the part of myself I cannot claim, that I cannot be, that is outside of me, the part I ran away from, the stranger I could not face, that I would will to surrender to me, that I would surrender to, the missing piece that I would chase into forever. I want the sun inside of me, bursting; I want love inside of me, glorious; I want faith, and certainty, and kindness, and warmth, and I don't want to live in fear, in terror, in pain; I want my life back; I want to make great art; I want to move on; I want to survive and succeed--I want to be . . .
"Was that so hard, to tell me all your deep dark secrets? Why now, is it because of the wine?" Mark looked down at her, eyes dark, searching. She smiled up at him, shook her head, looked away.
"Your book. Your poetry. I read Self. I read all of it. In and out, I read all of you."
"So you know me then, is that what you're saying?"
"Maybe."
"Then that means I can know you just as well from what you do."
"Maybe."
Mark stopped them both from dancing and made her look up at him by lifting her chin. "Admit you're wrong then."
"Go ahead and say 'I told you so.'"
"I told you so."
Sophia smiled, and closed her eyes. "You can kiss me if you want."
"It doesn't matter what I want. You have to want it too. Are you gay? You aren't attracted to me?"
"I don't know."
"Touch me then." He took her hand, and it went stiff as a claw. He squeezed it, and panicked, she started to pull away. "Sophie-do what you want," he said suddenly, and let go.
She stared at him. Then, slowly, she grew brave. Her hand went south, went to him, felt his heat, his weight, his size, and swallowed in consternation. He did not reach out to touch her again. "I--"
"Stop stalling. Do you feel like this?"
"Um . . . I don't have the same machinery." She grimaced, and closed her eyes.
"Stop it," he chided gently. "Do you feel hot and heavy, out of breath, light-headed and claustrophobic, itchy in a place you can't pinpoint, gooey, stupid, out of it?"
"All of the above." Sophia opened her eyes and saw him watching her.
"Then you're horny. So you want me then?"
"I guess so." She tipped her head back, preparing to be kissed.
"Don't guess so. Say so."
"I'm horny and I want you."
"Good girl."
I want you.
It did not happen straight away. He kissed her--he did this very well, and she was eager, yet still she darted away when she had the chance. She was not used to big hands, the searching lips of a man's, the largeness and overwhelming size. She was afraid, they were too familiar in a darker way, sliding through the back of her mind revisiting another day, her past.
He followed her to the bedroom, dismissed the master bathroom door she tried to hide behind and yanked her gently from behind it. She recovered and nearly made it out of the bedroom before he cut her off and cornered her on the bed. There, he persuaded her with more kisses--harder, deeper than that of a woman's, of Rachel's. She was confused by this--it seemed like he would hurt her, she began to panic once or twice again but then he soothed her with sounds, with words-words, where there had only been silence before.
Nothing hurt, only ached, and she reached, spread, marveled at his body, mere shapes and lines in front of her camera lens but now something entirely alive and different. It moved--it did not pose, it was not still. It breathed. It had been a long time . . . She shuddered, tried to look away, but then it reached out and grabbed her as he head threatened often to do with his eyes to her before, through her camera lens. But this time, it was gentler.
In her mind's eye, as he buried his face in her hair, her chest, her belly, she saw the man that had come to her on the heels of Rachel, in her studio that first night, tainted with pain and confusion and longing-as much as she had been. As much as she still was. She felt and saw his body, his length, his face, his hair-he was filled with burdens, with darkness, but was overflowing with light, with passion, with poetry. He was not going to hurt her. He was safe. She could only half believe it.
"I'm afraid of you," she murmured, and did not realize she had said this out loud, but he stopped, and looked at her.
"I know that." They spoke quietly, so low that their voices were only murmurs in the dimly lighted bedroom. They had managed to light a few candles but had forgotten the task after repeated kissing.
"How do you know so much?" She felt heavy still with a fear of trusting him, even as he held her, even as they began.
"You know me," he replied, his voice soft in her ear, velvet, ropes. He tied her to him with words, and she found that she was willing, that the ropes did not hurt. "You know me by your pictures, by my poetry, by touching me, by loving me . . . " Keep talking, she thought, never stop talking.
"How can I know you beyond poetry? They're words on a page, words only . . ."
"I'm a man, too, beyond a poet. You can tell everything. My life story. You could tell it." Both of his hands cupped her cheeks.
"Everybody has a life story . . ." She spoke of nothing, echoed him, stared off into darkness, into blindness--pleasure seeped into her body, filled her up.
"Tell mine."
"I don't know it." His lips brushed hers, in the dim lamplight, and she shook with fear, hated not knowing for sure what would be on the other side of this surrender to a man who had come into her life by pain. Pain was something she had excised from her life, something she had grown so adept at avoiding.
"Yes you do, you lovely liar, you can't run forever." She closed her eyes, remembered running, falling on the grass. One day, she could tell him. One day.
"Tell me. Tell me everything you know, just like you told me what you want, I'll tell you everything and you will tell my story-" His breath was hot and cool against her neck, her ear, her eyes, and she struggled to breath, to maintain control of her senses, she remembered Rachel briefly for a moment and the soft way she had felt, but that was so different, this was so much more protective, yet he was willing to let her go. Maybe she could find it on her own, reason, her senses, her dream-maybe she could find it in her work . . . with him, maybe? I'm safe. I won't lose anything unless I choose to. I am in control of my self as he is in control of his. So let me travel with him . . .
In defeat, she shook her head, acquiesced. He determinedly and steadily kissed every part of her face, drew her hands to him, her body. She felt herself giving in, as inevitable as death, as the surrender she had dreamed of, the kind that did not hurt.
"No . . . but how do I tell your story? How do I come to know you? How do I learn to trust you? It's not fair that you know me better than myself." She still put up a fight, and he smiled down at her for it. His eyes were wide, as confused as hers; he sounded like he knew everything but she knew he was as uncertain. She liked that; they would find this out on equal terms.
"You can know me as well as that." His hands found their way to other places, secret places, places that had not been visited in so long, and never explored so kindly. Her voice in reply was small and seeking, as it had never been, against his chest. She felt no need to break away, to scream-she was not ashamed.
"How? I don't know how."
"I'll show you."
"But how-"
"Take a picture."
She took the pictures that night with a regular snapshot camera by her bed. She hadn't been able to find anything better. That night it had not mattered what f-stop she used, or what focal length or shutter speed. Later on, in her studio, they explored the rest of what there was to learn.
In dusky early evening daylight, Mark's limbs were spread apart and arranged, on cotton, on silks, across naked wooden floors and atop simple structures. His virile angles reclined, lips parted, eyes beckoning; a hand clasped the heart beating of Sophia lost, Sophia seeking, Sophia surrendering and conquering.
Sophia learned to enter the visual field with him; her female body receded and returned like the tide, to take up the camera, to adjust the lighting, to capture on film the missing pieces and to begin to realign them, to finally understand her self as Mark had done on his own voyage. She understood that she could, if she wished, stand beside him, go on her own journey. They would bear the same fears and pains; they would hope, and dream, that these things would last, that trust would remain, that hope had a reason to linger, that faith in love had a right to exist. She could learn to trust, and she was relieved to finally begin.
Gender did not matter; the outside self beyond the flesh and what it held within did not matter. The flesh that had claimed her in fear, alone in the Palisades, she could let go of; the stain on her from her past could be washed off and learned from, like so much else. Together, Sophia and her lover tangled in each other's arms and made poetry, music, paintings, and operas; they created images, powerful visions between themselves that slowly let go of fear and reached for the potential message to be delivered in every piece of art.
Sophia spoke to Mark, and he listened to her describe the two of them in poetry--she did not compose, or struggle for the perfect words. This was lovemaking, not a career, not something to impress a potential customer. Her voice was soft in his ear; the camera stood on its three legs abandoned, forgotten.
"Exposed male and female flesh flashed onto virgin paper, later to be exposed again to light," she whispered, her fingers raised above them, tracing patterns in the sunlight.
"To be photographs displayed to lingering crowds and . . . eyes in public windows." Her hands molded his chest, his arms, watched the skin jump back under pressure, watched the hair rise at a breath. She was learning not to be afraid of him, was brave enough to touch him on her own.
"We are flesh caught in the serenity of art on glossy film, bodies that move and writhe, that touch--"
"That kiss, that fuck--" He interrupted her with his own poetry and with a deliberately lewd grin squeezed her ass. She scooted away and went on.
"Flesh that dreams, that loves, that comforts . . ." She smiled, bent down to kiss him, tease him with her lips. He smiled up at her, closed his eyes, listened to her lullaby.
I am flesh that understands the meaning of touch, connection. Two selves. Love is all and not limited to self-doubt. I can be what I want to be. I am flesh that can finally admit that it wants, and that it wants you.
flesh part 1