Whispers of Stone and Paint

You know when you have that really long, deep sleep where your eyes get crusty by the time you awake. Well, that's what waking up every night for what I call the night shift is like. You’d think being stuck between four thick walls my entire life that I’d be claustrophobic. Fresh air is something I’ve never experienced though the air seems to clear up a bit in the dark with less people around. Nonetheless, I survive. It’s not living but what choice do I have? I’ve never left home. It’s certainly not for the lack of desire. Truthfully, I don’t know what would happen if I did leave. Every morning when the sun comes up, I feel the need to return to my room and stay still while I’m poked and prodded with judgment like a farm animal at a petting zoo.

Hearing people talk about you all day can be taxing. I mean who wouldn’t get a little defeated when all they hear is why does she look like that? Or it would look better if she wore this? Or why does she look so sad? If you were forced to have nothing but a sheet draped over half of your body all day, you’d feel distressed too. In all honesty, I was promised a small fee in exchange for my time and beauty, he said. It’s too bad he didn’t catch the eye roll in his work because that would’ve given patrons a whole lot more to talk about. At the end of the day, I never got paid and I never saw Antonio again. That was the last time I believed a man’s word.

I really shouldn’t be complaining about my lifestyle. I have traveled the world. But anytime I go to another city, I’m never allowed to explore. I’m forced to stay within the confined space with all the others. It’s like waving wine in front of Constantine l. A big fat tease. My stays range from months to years without any warning or heads up so I can never bid farewell to a city or friend. Ironically enough, my surname Italica is supposed to be in honor of Antonio’s nationality and how its artistic heritage had been stolen from them. Being sold off from one dealer to another is just a reminder about how fragile I really am. I may look tough as stone on the outside, but I feel just like any other woman.

As I walk around stretching out my legs, the party’s just beginning to start. The yells and shouts from down the hall remind me why I stick to myself. Besides the roaming eyes. Picasso once said that ‘sculpture is the art of the intelligence’. The others act like brainless wide receivers racing their heavy bodies down the halls to see who’s faster. Every night I pray they don’t knock into a wall or they might actually bring the house down as they say. Not that I do anything more constructive with my time. Usually I sit on the bench in front of long floor to ceiling windows overlooking the homes along the main road or the gardens in the back. Depending on my mood. Wishing and wanting desperately to be a part of the outside world. For once, just once, to know what it’s like to feel cotton cover my body. Or to be wrapped up in another dancing the night away only to end the night with a kiss that takes my breath away. Instead, my throat remains cold and dry while my body remains on display for all to see. I can’t help that my nipples are constantly hard. It gets cold in here. I keep turning up the thermostat, but they always change it back.

I’m always hesitant to make friends with my unpredictable tour dates. But I would never forget my encounter with Benjamin. According to his name tag, he was a professor and doctor. Passing by him night after night, he would never look up from his book or his purring cat. I was reminded of myself. The introvert who paid attention to no one but herself. One night I finally got the courage to ask what he was reading. Not that I could read myself or even relate to it, but I wanted to more. I wanted to know what was so interesting that pulled him in night after night. I wanted to know what his voice sounded like when he said his name. I wanted to know everything.

That was the first night of many. Each night I would go back and sit on the bench in front of him and listen. Benjamin would describe his findings and things he’d experienced as an educator. While there were many times in the past I found myself forced to endure the selfish babblings of a man, the passion in Benjamin’s voice was like he had just discovered whatever it was all over again. It made me want to learn more and more. Occasionally, I would ask him a question or clarification and it never bothered him. As a woman with little education, his willingness to dive deeper made me feel as though he enjoyed our talks as much as I did.

Benjamin never broke eye contact with his text. I was used to men’s eyes glued to me while they uttered crude comments. His actions didn’t bother me…at first. It was a relief actually. But as our meetings got longer and more frequent, it started to make me wonder if I was an annoyance. One night I made a comment under my breath about it being rude not to look at someone when they’re talking to you. Never in my life would I have stepped out of line to a man, but something told me this time, just this time, I deserved that respect. Benjamin stayed silent for a brief moment.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. I teach human anatomy…And like my work, I tend to have much more curiosity about what’s on the inside.”

For the first time in a very long time, I felt…warm. Like blood was rushing through my veins straight to my cheeks while my heart pumped so fast it would leap out of my chest onto his textbook. Not that it’s something he’s never seen before. A human heart that is. And I wanted to give mine to him because at that moment I knew my slight aversion to his absentee glance was foolish. This is what I’ve been wanting and wishing for. Someone who didn’t have to look at me to admire me. As my eyes shift back up to him, I saw his hand reaching out to me. With a red rose in his grasp.

That was the last night I saw Benjamin. The following night, I stepped off my pedestal with my head so high in the clouds that I didn’t realize I wasn’t in the same building that I had just started to call home. With my walk to him almost memorized, I retraced my steps almost a dozen times trying to convince myself it was all a dream. That I hadn’t been relocated. That I hadn’t lost the one person that I cared for. That I believe cared for me in return. All the warmth that was overflowing only moments before had dissipated completely. Then, I felt nothing.

Tonight, I’ve opted for the garden view. The one with sprawling hedges and various florals growing. What I would give to get lost in such a beautiful maze. I would pick a red rose each time and hold it against my chest as a way of keeping Benjamin close to my heart no matter how many miles away he is. Even beautiful flowers have a mechanism for self-preservation. And its thorns could try to prick my impenetrable skin, but nothing can get past my outer shell. Nothing, but Benjamin.

The sky begins to lighten and I know that’s my signal to head back. I’ve overheard stories that anyone who stays out with the sun is never seen again. As much as I consider vanishing from existence, I can never bring myself to pull the trigger. Resting my hand on the window, I say good morning to Benjamin before turning back towards the Venus room. My podium is right where it always is in the middle of the space like a centerpiece on a table. My body begins to stiffen as I get into position attempting to cover my chest. A tear falls down my cheek as my consciousness fades away.