There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet)

With all the time I’ve been spending watching Mara, I’ve barely been paying attention to my own work.

Marcus York rings me up to “remind me” to submit my design for the sculpture in Corona Heights Park.

“Alastor Shaw sent me his early sketches,” York says, trying to stoke my competitive fire. “They were pretty impressive . . . but I’m sure you’ve got something even better percolating in that brain.”

Actually, I don’t.

I’m not uninterested in the project. It would be the largest piece I’ve ever done, which makes my mind run wild. However, this is one sculpture I won’t be able to build alone. I’m not sure how much I’d enjoy designing something I couldn’t manufacture myself.

I’ve always had a fascination with machines. Figuring out how to create the sculptures I see in my mind is half the fun. I’ve built more custom machinery than I have actual art. My studio is full of my own inventions.

Machines are complicated, but when built right, they work precisely as intended. They’re much more useful assistants than I could ever hire from the Artists Guild.

And unlike human assistants, I don’t mind sharing my space with them.

Mara’s been hinting that she wants to come to my studio.

I’m tempted to let her. I’d be curious to hear her opinion on several unfinished pieces that never quite took shape.

I’ve never shown them to anyone before. In fact, I wouldn’t like to admit that I have unfinished work—sculptures that I can’t complete to my liking. That I’ve made and remade several times, never finding satisfaction in their final form.

Mara sees the same imperfections that I do. She has that undefinable sense of balance, where she can tell when something’s off.

She’ll see what’s wrong with them. And maybe, she just might know how to make them right.

The thought of bringing Mara here gives me a burst of motivation. I throw all the dust covers off the machinery, oiling and tightening and polishing any pieces that need it.

My workspace is always clean, but I clean it again, sweeping the wide, wooden planks of the old chocolate factory, clearing space in the center of the room as if I were about to begin a new project.

You can still smell the lingering scent of cocoa from the tiny nibs that fell between the boards. On warm days, the bitter, buttery scent mixes with sawdust and steel to create one of my favorite perfumes.

Mara would notice it. She’s sensitive to scents. She could probably pick out the individual elements, naming each one. I wouldn’t even have to tell her this had been a chocolate factory once upon a time—she’d already know.

I picture her standing here in the diffused light, slanted through with shadows from the muntins between the windows. I imagine the sparkling motes of dust settling amongst the freckles on her cheeks. How she’ll try to appear calm and composed, while bouncing on the balls of her feet. She’ll bring her fingers to her mouth, wanting to bite the edge of her nail, then quickly drop her hand again because she knows that infuriates me.

I imagine her warm, peppery scent mixing with the smell of chocolate.

My mouth salivates.

I drag a flat drafting table to the center of the space and I imagine Mara lying upon it. Arms and legs outspread. A spotlight trained on her naked body.

I imagine her tied down, the way I’d secure any object before going to work upon it.

What kind of machinery would I need for this project?

What I have won’t do.

No common drills or saws or sanders for Mara.

No, she needs something special. Something custom. Something built just for her . . .