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On men's island prison, she is the only woman.

He looked at the silhouette of his hands in front of the big windows that faced the courtyard. A blind man looking into a dark sea.

It was as though his heart had just jumped out the window, but he was still standing here, stuck here, sensibly and even comfortably here, his stomach warm from the last mouthful of brandy. The heat of it was just beginning to move up into his face.

Outside, the sound of the traffic was light, and for once, not threatening. His dream of a studio in an old barn on the edge of a meadow where black-eyed susans bobbed was not so real now. The fans were noisy with hot air from the ineffectual air conditioning.

He was broke, having paid every penny he owned to show his collection. Fat lot of good. Now, he had no prospects, not a chance. DeVry had effectively scotched his reputation. Now he would have to do something entirely different and get a good review by someone else entirely.

He felt his hands in the dark, the old chisel scar inside his left thumb, the broad, coarse spatulas at the tip of each finger. He thought of pushing paint, soft and creamy paint with his fingertips. He thought of Donna.

He had hurt her the last time. He had probably hurt her before, but she had never complained, maybe a small squeak from deep in her throat, but she never accused him of being brutal, never before this.

This had started with his work. She didn't like the last few pieces. She didn't even have to say she didn't like them. He could tell. From the way she walked around them with her elbows in, looking at them but not touching them.

"Why," she finally said, her mouth barely open, "Why do you have the, sort of, head thing down here, and this,..." and she pointed to a raised hollow, all orange and crimson. "...up here, all sort of exposed? What are you trying to tell me...us...people?"

She walked around that largest figure warily, peering at it as though in a bad light, as though trying to find something. Once she stopped, looked up with a little, "Oh no!" and then went on through the loft, her eyes widening a bit with each piece.

Finally, she stood at the other end of the room, her face caving in, darkening. He didn't understand until she started asking questions again.

"They're a sequence, right?" Her voice echoed. The loft was now empty of party guests but full of the styrofoam spoor and the smells of evaporating liquor that follow the swarming of an opening.

He had to think about her question. He had done them one after the other. How else? But as he looked he began to see. There was something. Why had he never noticed the pattern?

"That...that is the first one, right? That upright one."

He looked at it. It was the first one he had finished, not the first he had done. And when he had finished it he immediately felt it was incomplete. It was playful, appendages a bit like arms thrust into the air, floral patterns like a free-floating paisley covering the curves. It was very light.

He nodded. "Call it the first."

"That was right after we met, right?" she said. He nodded again.

"Then this," she said, her fingers wavering as she pointed, the other hand touching her mouth.

It was like the first figure, only the appendages had been folded in. There was a small, astonished hollow in the head part. It was smeared with crimson. The paisley was darker, more disorderly. The figure seemed to tip, off balance, as though pushed.

"I think I remember seeing it the next day after we had that that awful, stupid fight on the ferry. It wasn't painted then."

"Yes, I did that one next," he agreed. But he saw where she was going.

"Then this," she said, biting her lip. "I remember this. This happened. After that time at the lake when we were wrestling. The dock was wet and I slipped." She rubbed her hip.

The figure was toppling, permanently, one lower appendage clumsily out in space; one huge haunch flattened. The head-like globe gaped. The pattern was blue like reflected water. There were small red scratches.

"That's enough," he said under his breath.

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