Wingéd

Without even daring to breathe, she sits beside him—not too close, as to not disturb him, and not too far, so she can see every carve he makes, every twitch of his fingernail, sliding, like a pianist’s hands, up and down the starry glow of the marble. Her ankles are crossed, and she moves only to smooth her skirt repeatedly, nervously, just in case he turns to glance at her, turns away from his work to smile at her, to beam at her, the familiar presence who sits in his room, wrought with the fire of an artist’s will, day after day, only to watch him pour his juvenile soul into a piece of marble, willing it alive.



She can only bite her lips and stare at him, observe his fingers, nearly as white as the marble itself, and the nape of his neck, and the curl of the golden-brown hair, frosted with the dust of the marble, while her own fingers sit in her lap, sunken in the folds of her skirt, as still and immobile as the marble itself.



In the rare seconds where he speaks, it will usually be to himself, always an artistic jumble of syllables and nonsensical phrases, something she can never hope to understand. Sometimes, he shall the birds, the stupid little feathered sparrows that flit by, just out of his reach, atop the windowsill. He will ask them questions, ask them to critique his work, ask them whether the wings looked realistic enough, or whether they thought that the marble could fly yet.



She wonders, rather often, why he will speak to the birds about his artwork, rather than her. Doesn't she have a pair of eyes? A tongue? A pair of lips as well? (Better than a beak, she thinks, pouting to herself.) Has he forgotten? But still, here she sits, discomfort curling like a snake in her chest, her eyes transfixed upon his hands that never cease sculpting.



And then he stands—a little shakily, he stands and takes a single, tremulous step to the windowsill, where those sparrows he so often consult sit, fat and content and bearing awful resemblance to a trio of old, graying art critics, whose eyes had seen many a Rembrandt in their day.



And he breathes, he breathes so beautifully, she could only shiver, shiver and stare and smooth her skirt. And still he does not turn, and still he speaks to the the sparrows, those birds that sit, just out of reach upon the windowsill.



“Does it look like her?”



And then, and only then, do her eyes travel to the marble--the old, lifeless marble he has been carving and smoothing and sculpting and giving life to—the wings that had stretched a meters in either direction, spread out upon the breathless air that had long since frozen, long since died. The marble, once dead and solid and immobile and old, now glowing and alight with the heart he had carved in it. The wingéd angel she has watched him carve and smooth and sculpt and give life to, to which he had poured his very soul into.



It is her—her own eyes, her own face, every dip and curve of her skull, her fingers, the nape of her neck, the curl of her hair. It is her, but wingéd.