Grimmett felt it. He felt the judges’ words like a hot mandrel pressing against the back of his neck. He looked at the case next to his, the desire to tip it over bubbling inside him. “How do you feel now?” he would roar as the headpiece hit the ground. He imagined the display case shattering, phallic-shaped beads scattering, rolling across the polished cement floor.
“Hi Grimmett,” a hand touched his elbow and he jerked. “Oh, sorry,” the woman pulled her gloved hand away.
“Jade,” he faked a smile, “How nice of you to come.”
She peered in the display case, her neck taking on the elegant bend of blown glass, “It’s rather tacky, isn’t it?”
“How do you know that’s not mine?”
“As someone who has only taken one lampwork course ever . . . I don’t know. Your work just feels different,” she scooted over to his case, “This looks like yours.”
“How does it feel?”
“Uh,” Jade stared at the necklace, “Pristine? Like glaciers or ice caves, or the sea under a steel sky.”
“I’ve gone stale,” he blinked, then wiped his face with the bottom of his grey tee shirt. The frustration beat inside him, hotter than any torch, and he found himself storming towards the exhibit room exit, Jade fidgeting in his wake.
“Hey!” A voice stopped him, “Don’t think you can walk by me without saying hello.” It was Brian Frederickson, his arm linked through a tall man wearing a derby cap.
“Sorry,” Grimmett forced a smile, “I was being dramatic.”
“I want you to meet Chris.”
Chris offered his free hand, “Brian talks about you all the time, and how amazing your beads are.”
“Brian’s turning into quite the lampworker himself,” Grimmett squeezed his hand, “It’s been a pleasure watching him grow.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jade. She lingered behind the men, her brow furrowed.
“Well, we’ll let you get back to being dramatic. Where’s your piece, so we can check it out?”
Grimmett pointed, “The one that looks like ice caves.”
“Ice caves,” Chris giggled as he turned away, “No wonder you love this guy.”
Grimmett closed his eyes. He could almost imagine he was in the studio. The voices of the crowd and the echoes of the room faded into the clangs and hisses of metal and gas. The chill meant he had just started the day, and soon the heat would rise from the bench burners until sweat was trickling down his chest in a river.
“Do you really think I’ll go away if you close your eyes?” Jade’s fingers pinched his elbow, “I meant to apologize, but I’m still not sure what I said wrong. Your work is perfect as always. You probably don’t even know what criticism feels like.”
He opened his eyes, glared, “It’s art, Jade. Not everyone likes the same thing.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Not everyone would put up with an angsty blond man sweating over them and yelling either, but that’s how artists are,” her mouth twitched into a smile, “I didn’t mean that in a dirty way.” She giggled.
“Are you done?”
“No, are you?”
“Yeah. I’m ditching. I need to get back to the studio.”
“Did you leave something in the annealer?”
Grimmett snorted. “I’m going to start using that as an excuse. Anyway,” he locked eyes with her, “you want to come?”
“Yes! I mean, I guess I could squeeze it in,” Jade pulled out her phone, “We are talking about the college’s glass studio, right?”
“No, this is my own space.”
“Really?” she took off her right glove. Angry welts covered the tips of her fingers.
“Let me punch it in for you,” he offered.
“Typing doesn’t hurt if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s only things like plastic shopping bags when they twist real tight, but you can’t do anything about it. So you walk faster and you’re practically running, just so you can put them down. It’s not that bad, really. Some people get it on their face.”
“I don’t care about your hands, it’s just easier if I type it in,” he lied.
She handed him her phone, “It’s not contagious.”
“I know,” he plugged in the address. “The studio is in an old factory. If you get lost, call me,” he paused, “You do still have my number?”
“Pretty sure I never had your number.”
“It was in the syllabus.”
“I . . . don’t have that with me right now.”
“Right. I’ll put that in too,” he switched to her contacts, opening a blank entry. It was strange how obsessed he used to be with her, and yet she didn’t even think enough of him to put his number in her phone. “Grimm,” he typed. That was the situation, grim. Steel skies, ice caves, and an amber sun that was unreachable.
He handed back her phone, “See you there.” Pushing through the door, he strode across the parking lot. It was his custom to park in the rear, not because the car was nice, but because it wasn’t. It coughed to a start, wheezed to the entrance, then died at the first intersection. Cursing, he slammed on the brakes and tried to restart it. There was a honk, and again he yelled.
By the time he reached the studio, he felt disconnected from the city around him. Somehow he had never learned how to be content, and it weighed on his chest like a block of granite. He would work harder, he would take on more students. They were life-giving, the way their faces lit when they wound their first bead, their pride when they held their first piece cupped in their hands like a child.
A hand tapped on his window. He cranked it down, watching Jade’s expression shift to amusement. “You have actual window cranks,” she peered in the car, “How old is this thing?”
“I don’t know, fifteen years or so. Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“Where? What could compare to famed Grimmett’s private studio?” she leaned into his car, tweaking the tip of his nose.
He swatted her hand away, “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Quit playing hard to get,” she leaned further inside the car, “It’s a Saturday, we’re alone, and behind that door, there’s a rod of glass just waiting to be heated.”
“I got second,” the words burst from him in rush, “That piece with the dicks, the one you said was tacky, that’s the one that won.”
“You’re kidding,” Jade’s face tightened, “Those judges better hope they never run into me in a dark alley. I have a bone to pick and I don’t leave fingerprints.”
“What if they’re right? What if all my work is missing soul?”
“Then I’d rather be wrong. Your lampwork, the way you put it all together, it transports me. I don’t love it because everyone else does. I love it because it rips me thirty-thousand feet into the air. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak, it’s . . . awe.”
Grimmett unlocked his car door, “Let’s go make some ice caves.”
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Cross Posted to Deadlines for Writers
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This is the continuation of my Blown Away inspired short story, Excuses. As much as I enjoyed writing it, I still for the life of me cannot think of a plot. I recently read a novella by Haruki Murakami that somehow managed on the tiniest scrap of a plot, but I don't think I can pull that off. Murakami has that talent where he can write about absolutely nothing and it still makes one turn the page. I have the exact opposite tendency, where I cram as much as possible into the smallest word count.
Which reminds me, Save Desdemona (link below) is still free through March 31. It's evil twin, Do Not Reuse, is also free and will continue to be so.
