His Perfect Creation

Working this long, this close to the fire is grueling. Having already stripped down to his shorts and leather apron, he wipes his brow and guzzles water. One more time. With the white-hot flame ready, he rolls his pipe in the molten gather. Hoping, praying that this time he has the mixture right. A soft blow, a turn, a little more air, another turn. A slight cooling on the marver, more air, just a bit more, a slow turn. Pause to let a bubble float to the top, shaping on the bench, cool, just enough and blow. Turn, gather the ocher shot with gold frit. That's right, turn, air, blow, shape with the jack, turn ...

Dripping with sweat, arms trembling with effort. Legs cramping. Lungs on fire. He doesn't feel any of it.

He's in the Zone.

The Zone, where any artist, athlete, performer worth his salt wants to be. That place that can only be reached after mindless drills and practice in the pursuit of perfection. Yes, talent helps. But mind-numbing repetition is the key. When every muscle in the body knows instantly, automatically what to do, when top form has been reached, then the brain is free to imagine and create magic.

That is The Zone.

Thoughtless he works. Knowing in his soul, feeling it with each fiber of his body, he's convinced this is his Masterpiece, his Opus Magnum, his perfection.

At last he carefully separates the glass from the pipe and sets it in the cooling kiln, where it is allowed to cool undisturbed. Too fast and it will shatter, too slow and it may sag, lose its shape. One last look before he closes the lid.

He turns off the flame, banks the fire, cleans his workspace, puts away his pipes and jacks. Gathering his discarded clothes, he leaves the studio and crosses the yard to the small house. No more than a one room shack smaller than his studio. Never mind, He spends more time in his studio than in the house. Thirty minutes recording his work, the color combinations and techniques used, one long shower, a perfunctory meal before he finally collapses on the threadbare sofa. He puts his feet on the overturned milk crate and sips a beer. Just before he falls asleep on the couch, he sends up a little prayer to whomever it may concern. "Please let it survive the night."

He feels the familiar aches in his neck from having fallen asleep on the couch, again. Not that his thin mattress on the floor in a corner of the room, would have been an improvement. He groans at the familiar aches in his arms, back and legs earned during many hours of work. He scratches the small burns on his arms, the ones that have tiny shards of glass embedded. His brain feels numb from having inhaled too much of that shit.

After gulping down a cup of hot, dark, bitter coffee, he steps into his work boots and is on his way to the studio. Time to see if the cooling kiln has done its job. Carefully, he lifts the lid and sighs with pleasure. "God, you're beautiful." he whispers. With both hands, he reaches in and picks up the delicate glass sculpture.

The figurine, Aphrodite rising from the surf, is the best thing he has ever made. The subtle white froth reaches up the calves and thighs. The pale amber skin, which he doubts he could ever replicate, is cleverly covered in ocher and gold that drapes provocatively over the curves and valleys. The long, graceful neck, a mere hint at facial features, seductively hidden behind deep amber hair that drapes over her right shoulder.

The glass is still warm to the touch. Wrapping the delicate figurine in a soft cloth, to protect it from the cold air, he carries it into the little house. Proudly, he places it on the shelf above the hearth. Then he sits on the old sofa and admires his work. Eventually his eyelids droop. The lack of sleep, the many days and nights compulsively, obsessively working to achieve this perfection is catching up with him. "You are perfect." he mumbles just before he falls asleep.

A soft touch on his shoulder, a light stroke across his cheek, a caress teasing his lips. He stirs and turns toward the warmth. More please, more. He opens his eyes and blinks. And blinks again.

Before him is the most beautiful woman he could possibly imagine. Sexier than Brigitte Bardot, Classier than Grace Kelly, more voluptuous than Liz Taylor. This goddess has skin that glows as if she's made of sunshine, thick honey-gold hair rolls in waves over her shoulders. A diaphanous gold-shot ocher gown, which has no intention of hiding her sensual body, a body made to be worshipped. Her sultry brown eyes, high cheekbones and plump lips compete with her ... yes, he's a man. So he looks and looks at ... her succulent breasts.

He groans.

"Good morning. I'm glad you're finally awake. I've been watching you." She smiles. "All night." Her small, warm hand stroked over his. Of its own accord his hand turns over, inviting her fingers to etch small trails in his palm and up his forearm. Suddenly he's uncomfortable in his shorts.

"I'm in need." She pouts. "Can you help me?"

Oh, he can think of several ways to help her. His sigh is one of pleasure. But cautiously, wondering, hoping but doubting, he asks. "Who are you?"

She laughs. Her laughter is like a bell. Not the kind that hangs over a shop's door. Not the kind that waits to be slapped, demanding service. Not the kind that calls the people to church on Sunday. No, this is the whole carillon. Though now she only uses the upper octaves, her seductive voice of minutes ago, tells him her voice has excellent pitch and range.

"I am your creation. You made me to be your ideal, your perfection, I exist because of you." She trails her fingernails down his chest, plucking his flat nipples, making him twitch. She lightly scratches over his taut abdomen, taunts at the band of his shorts.

He shudders, he bucks, his breath catches, he's forgotten how to swallow.

"Ah, my ...." Is as coherent as he can be.

Her lips have followed her fingers and set him on fire. His head slams against the cushions of the sofa. His legs splay, his body melts into the couch. He gazes, unseeing at the low ceiling of the small house.

"Oh shit! This is better than ..."

His thoughts are MIA. The few blood cells that had been keeping his brain semi-functioning, have donned party hats, handed in their vacation slips and are rushing down to his groin. He's now her willing slave.

She all female and insatiable. "You made me. You decided that I am the goddess of beauty, lust and passion. You declared me perfect." she purrs.

Hours pass and become days. On she plays, holding him captive with her seduction, her skills, her demands to be worshipped. He tries to slip away, needing rest, nourishment, strength. He offers food, wine, anything.

"No, come back. I'm not done with you, yet." She drags him back to the suddenly luxuriously plush, silky smooth, enormous bed. He, her slave, follows, having lost his mind, his will.

It's been weeks. He's wrung out, a mere shadow of himself. His perfect creation has become just a tad too perfect. He has not been given rest or the chance to go to his studio. Consignments are falling behind. No matter how often or how much he protests, she knows exactly which buttons to tweak. How to mold him for her pleasure.

Somewhere, way back in the last functioning square inch of his cortex, he knows that he must find her Achillis heel. But she's a goddess. How can he win against a goddess? She's the goddess of beauty, sex, lust, passion, love and procreation.

Wait! The thought almost slips before he catches it.

When she told him who she was, she did not mention love or procreation. What does that mean? It's so hard to think when she has her small, but powerful and skillful hands wrapped around him. But he must or he will die. Though, there are worse ways to go.

No! Not yet. All hands, or rather all platelets and corpuscles on deck.

"Oh, Aphrodite." He sighs. "May I call you Aph? Or would you prefer Ditie? I'd like us to have pet names, don't you? You could call me Alfie. How's that? Aph, you are by far the most beautiful, sensual and lustful woman I've ever met."

"Yes, of course, I am." She shrugs.

"I love you."

"Most men and women love and worship me in the lustful sense, of course."

No, no. My heart, my soul has yearned for you. Now that I've created you, you are mine."

"Time out, Buster. I do not belong to you. You're cute, have all your teeth, most of your hair. Have earned this strong body with work. But handsome or not, you are a mere mortal. I'm a goddess." She rolls to her back, one arms flung over her eyes. "Oh, why do mortals have to be so tedious? They don't know their place. All they want ... Wait! What do you want?"

"Marry me, have my children."

"F ..., Sh ...! No, nuh hu. I don't think so. I've had seven. Eros, heard of him? He was my first. Man that little thing was - still is a handful. Do you have any idea what it takes to keep him in arrows? And his aim is slipping. His successes are less than the Cubs. And it's been centuries, millennia and he still wears diapers, for Zeus' sake! And the twins were just as much trouble, till I kicked them out.

She rolls her eyes, shrugs and sighs. "No, you're thinking of my daughter Harmonia. Kind of a homely, docile creature." She shakes her head. "I guess you better feed me and I'll be on my way. There's bound to be a mortal out there who's less demanding and worthy of me."

Two hours later, only thirty minutes of which are spent on food, he puts his arm around her shoulder. "Are you sure you need to go? But I haven't shown you my studio yet. Come, it's the least you can do. After all it's the place where I conceiver you, so to speak."

She's not impressed. "It's cold and dirty. How can anyone work in these conditions? No chocolate, no nectar, no ambrosia." She grumbles.

"My bad, Ditie. It'll take just a minute to warm the place up. Can't have you catch a cold now, can we? Let me show you how glass blowing works. See the sculpture I made of you?

"Hey...!

There is no glass sculpture on the shelf over the hearth, but the front window has new shimmering, amber and gold panes.