And Aphrodite Peered On

The husky young girl leaned against the concrete post. Her glum eyes tracked every move he made.

"Are you just going to stand there and gape at me?" she asked him.

"Stand up straight against the post," he answered.

"And what if I don't? Would you hit me?"

"Just do it."

"No. Why can't I lean?"

He looked at her for a long time. He hadn't expected her to rebel this early. Everything had gone smoothly up to this point, even despite the lack of preparation. They were neighbors, and although she had a secret crush and marginally trusted him, they had never actually been alone together.

She had been in his house before, with friends, in his kitchen and living room, always the group thing, a few beers and a movie. She'd always thought of him as a shy guy, quiet, prone to mood swings.

She knew he was a painter, the mysterious, silent type that valued solitude and time alone. Even when they'd get together with friends he'd always seem partially detached from the crowd, like a thinking shadow amidst the conversation and laughter.

"Don't make this difficult, Susan," he warned.

"Don't make what difficult?" She saw something flicker in his eyes that she didn't particularly like.

He sighed. "I can't do it with you slouching like that."

"Look, why don't we just forget this."

He had called her earlier, requesting help for an art project. He'd asked her if she wouldn't mind posing for him. She'd been delighted, flattered. Did you want me nude she had asked. He'd stammered over the phone then, which she'd thought was cute. Yes, he wondered if she wouldn't mind posing nude for him. Just a quick sketch, he assured her. He would finish the details and shading later.

"What brought all this on?" he now asked her, frowning.

"I think I'm changing my mind," she said uncomfortably. "I'm cold."

"This won't take long at all.""

"But you don't even have any of your stuff down here," she said, looking around. "Where's the canvas and all your brushes?"

"They're upstairs. I'm going up to get them now."

"You've been saying that for the past fifteen minutes," she griped, "but all you do is stare at me. And that statue over there --"

He shot a sudden glance at her. "What about it?"

"Why did you bring it down? Is it going to be in the painting too?"

A plaster Aphrodite loomed in a far corner, armless and pupiless. Her opaque eyes peered at Susan with a creepy introspection from the gloomy basement shadows.

He followed Susan's stare to the Aphrodite, and his face grew sullen. He murmured something at the statue. The utterance was too low for Susan's ears to decipher.

"What did you say?" she asked. Her eyes went from him, to the statue, and back to him.

"She is my inspiration," he whispered.

His tongue flickered across a lower lip.

"Steve, are you okay?"

He slowly came out of the trance. He turned to Susan, face like a rock, eyes deep and intense.

"Steve," she told him evenly. "I want to be untied."

He didn't move. His bottom lip was still squirming, eyes boring into her own. His face was a slab of granite.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I'm going up to get my stuff," he whispered. The words squeezed past stiff, unstable lips.

"Don't bother," she told him. "I've changed my mind. You can untie me now."

"Don't go anywhere," he said, and headed for the stairs.

"Hey!" she yelled. "Untie me, goddamit!"

He disappeared through the door and she was left alone in the silent contempt of the basement shadows. Susan was fully nude, tethered to a post. The ropes bit into her wrists. An elusive bird of apprehension fluttered down and perched upon her beating heart. Something was not right.

"Steve!" she cried out in the hazy, dampened darkness.

**

The latch snaps cracked sharply in the basement's gloom.

"Are you pretending to ignore me?" she yelled.

"Won't take long at all," he mumbled, peering into the open briefcase.

"What's in the briefcase?"

"My stuff."

"Your brushes?"

"So to speak, yes."

"So to speak?"

He rummaged through the briefcase's contents. From where she stood, the contents were unseen, but it sounded as if he had brought down all the silverware from the kitchen.

"What about the canvas?" she asked.

"It's already down here," he answered. His hand continued rambling.

She craned her neck and looked around the basement. Behind her, a few smashed chairs lay in a disorganized heap, along with a covered pool table and three finished paintings with their canvassed sides facing the wall. The air smelt of soggy wood and termite larvae. The cement floor beneath her bare feet was sticky and clammy. In front of her and between the statue of the armless Aphrodite stood a single wooden table and Steve. The rickety basement stairs slanted from a far right corner. She remembered them creaking in protest when she'd walked down them thirty minutes ago. She'd still had her clothes on then, and her wrists had still been free.

"Explain again why I needed to be tied up."

"I told you," he said. "You are supposed to be in bondage. Part of my project requires an object in nude bondage. Can you fake a pained expression?"

"This floor is freaking cold," she said, and frowned at the ground. "And it feels gross. Could I at least have a towel to step on?"

"A towel would alter my perception," he answered professionally. "How many slaves in bondage do you see stepping on towels?"

"Then don't paint the towel, duh."

He glanced up at her from the briefcase and flashed a charming smile. "You really don't know too much about painting, I see."

"All I know is this stupid rope is starting to hurt my wrists."

He ignored her complaint. "One more thing and then we'll begin."

"What now?" she snapped, not surprised at how rude her tone was. The concrete post rubbed menacingly against her goose-pimpled buttocks. She arched her back and grimaced.

He walked over to the stone Aphrodite statue and hugged it. She could hear him murmuring again, like a lover whispering sweet, incomprehensible nothings into a private ear.

"Are you talking to that thing?"

He lifted the statue with a grunt and lugged it over to where Susan stood. She saw the white, lifeless face float toward her, glaring reproachfully from over his straining shoulders. He gingerly set the statue down beside her and turned it facing him. "All set," he breathed, and dusted his hands. Chalky, white powder fell from his palms. He took a careful step back and surveyed with a thumb.

"You're going to draw her too?" she asked, a bit jealous, staring at the Aphrodite beside her.

"She," he whispered, admiring the statue with tender eyes, "is my inspiration."

"So let me get this straight," said Susan, annoyance spiking her voice. Had her wrists not been bound she would have folded them arrogantly across her ample breasts. "You won't let me stand on a towel but you can slide a statue up next to me? I would think that'd be an even bigger distraction."

"Oh, no," he whispered, a smile of contentment bending his lips. "You don't understand. This woman here," he brushed a finger across the statue's cheek, "is not only my muse, but a symbol of universal perfection. Her bodily essence holds the key to my artistic and spiritual salvation."

Susan looked dumbly at the armless, dead torso standing beside her. She shifted feet on the clammy floor. All she saw was a grotesque, nude and disfigured slab of plaster with blank eyes. It reminded her of old homes and dead people.

"This is creepy," she finally said. "Can we just get this over with?"

"You don't see it?" His face was a mask of amazement.

"I'm sorry, Steve," she sighed. "Guess I'm just not as artsy-fartsy as you are."

He chuckled and shook his head regretfully. "Yeah, I suppose not everyone sees the inner perfection in the mundane. Where you see a lifeless statue, I see the summit of universal beauty. You see a figure of chipped plaster; I see a mold that encapsulates every sensation of rapture the flesh can induce.

When you look into her stone eyes...all you see are stone eyes. But when I look into them," he spread his arms, "I see crystal waterfalls! Waterfalls that spill into turquoise pools!"

"Pools?" she said, looking at him strangely.

"Her lips!" he continued, voice spiraling upward in tones of chained excitement. "Their rosebud form holds a secret, a secret so bittersweet that it's almost tantalizing. But I know they are virginal!"

She stood against the post, watching him carefully. He had ventured into a realm where she could not follow. She had lost him back at the pools, and now she was downright scared. The ropes seemed even tighter now, cutting circulation, the floor colder, damper. She shuffled her feet.

"I've kissed those lips," he whispered, and turned to her, "and they are not as cold as you might think." He regarded her with the seriousness of a man trying to justify infanticide to an appalled jury.

"They are as fragrant as a pair of yielding, warm rose petals. And they kiss me back sometimes."

"What are you talking about?" she whispered frightfully. She searched his face for a sign that this was all a joke, but his eyes gaped back into hers like twin shards of hard ice. His breath was short and quick, as if he had just returned from a sprint around the block.

"You need to untie me." The arrogance was gone from her voice; mortal fear now sat on the throne.

"I see her in you!"

She jolted back and bonked her head against the post. Terror shimmered in her eyes like a lighthouse. She began struggling with the ropes, her mouth contorting into a chasm of desperation.

"I see her in every woman!" he cried, raising his hands fanatically. "Just as masterpieces lay hidden in every chunk of marble!"

"Untie me!" she snarled. "Goddamit, untie me NOW!"

He chuckled and took a step back. His eyes had narrowed. His lower lip had begun twitching again.

"Do you want me to scream?" she threatened.

He didn't answer her. Instead, chortling, he rubbed his hands together and went back to the open briefcase on the table.

She screamed. It was a piercing, maniacal screech for help.

"Won't take long at all," he breathed, pulling an electric lathe from the briefcase.

He headed over to the wall and bent down beside an outlet.

"What's that for?" she stammered, hot tears of horror welling in her wide eyes.

He plugged it in and stood up. "You mean this?" he asked, and looked at the lathe. He squeezed the trigger. It came alive with a surging buzz, the flat blade slicing up and down in the air.

"This is my paintbrush, Susan," he yelled over the screaming buzz. "I use it to paint away worthless rock�" He released the trigger, walked over to the table, and set it down.

She was crying and fighting the ropes now; she felt moistness running down her wrists, pooling in her cupped palms. She didn't have to twist her head to see what color the moistness was.

He walked past her, whistling, and pulled the canvas from the pool table. She craned her neck to view what he was doing. He dragged the canvas over to her and began spreading it out beneath her feet, flattening corners, smoothing ruffles.

"Here," he said kindly, tapping her ankle. "Step on this."

He went back to the briefcase and pulled out what looked like a large, transparent garbage bag.

He opened it and approached her, smiling. She cried harder.

"Why all the screaming hysterics?" he asked with a comical pout. "What has gotten into you?"

"Please," she sobbed. "Oh, God, please don't put that over my head!"

He looked at her as though she'd spoken Greek. He shook his head in bewilderment and slid the bag over the Aphrodite. "Now why would I do that?" he asked, shooting her a silly look.

"Do you want to go to jail!" she cried. "Untie these ropes and we can go upstairs for a beer and� and you can tell me all about your statue! I'll understand! I'll try to, I swear!"

He had stepped away and was now putting on a pair of work gloves. "Aphrodite's in you, baby.

And she's just waiting to come out."

"What does that mean!" she screamed. "Why do you keep saying that!"

"You asked earlier about my canvas," he said, lifting the lathe from the table.

She looked dumbly at him, tears streaming her face in bitter, horrified trails. Her pink, naked breasts hitched up and down in agonized panic.

"The innate beauty of all objects lay beneath the skin, wouldn't you say?" he spoke softly, walking to her, lathe raised. "A true artist's job consists of unearthing that beauty, be it through music, painting, writing. All the greatest works of art once started from utter nothingness; all canvases once began as white, empty squares, all sculptures as chunky, uneven rock. And so you carve and chip until the face of beauty emerges --"

"Oh, God," she garbled. "Oh, my God --"

"You are the canvas," he proclaimed, placing the lathe against her flabby, trembling bicep. "And I'll make a goddess out of you yet!" His eyes swirled in their sockets like pinwheels of lunatic bliss.

He squeezed the trigger.

She screamed for a long, long time.

And Aphrodite peered on, a sullen lady watching the rain trickle down her flimsy windowpane.