No Signs of Life

It looked the way I thought an art studio would look. Big layout, big light, splotches of paint and dust leavings everywhere. Small kitchen area, small bed area, small living area. And where I presumed a dining would went, or should go, there was my stool and the sculptor's pole.

"Have a seat right over there," he told me. I'd answered his ad only the day before. He was looking for models, anyone, male, female, young, old, it didn't matter. No pay, but we got to keep the bust. I figured it would be something different.

I sat down and he got to work. He cut slabs of clay from a giant block and started slapping them on. It was fairly impressive, being able to see a head start to form after just a few large pieces of clay. But there it was, there was I. Several feet behind the sculptor was a mirror, much taller than floor length, that rested against the wall, and every now and then I caught a glimpse of his masterful fingers. With just a push, a pull, a smudge, a smear, he brought to life the curve of my nose, the dent of my ear, the troublesome smirk I try to hide.

He worked with alacrity and precision that it was strange to see him suddenly stop, perplexed, gazing first at me and then upon my clay visage, back and forth. He continued his work.

"Are you from Nebraska?" he asked me.

"No..." I replied. What an odd question. "Why do you ask?"

"Ah. It's just that I know a couple people from Nebraska, and you all have the same dead look behind your eyes."

I wasn't sure what to say. He didn't seem to be making a joke. He was, in fact, quite serious, the most serious he was all afternoon. But he kept working, found other imperfections over which he could exercise some control I suppose.

A few more pieces stripped away with various tools, another couple of hair slabs added and coiffed, and he stopped again. I let some time go by. He was staring at the head, but didn't seem to be looking at it.

"Is that it?" He didn't answer me. "Are you done?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm done. I'm... I'm sorry."

Strange, that he should be apologizing to me. "For what?"

"It's not exactly complete. But it's as complete as I can do. But I'm afraid I can't let you take it away."

"Oh," I said. The fact that I could take the bust away with me was what prompted me to answer the ad in the first place. "Well, may I look at it?" He took a breath in, and then nodded, solemnly it seemed to me, and walked away.

I saw the reflection of my clay face there in the mirror. I dismounted the stool to get a closer look. And then I saw. That he had put the small clay pieces for my eyeballs, but gave them no retinas, no pupils, no signs of life. Just small, grey, smooth almonds. I looked to the sculptor. His lip was quivering. He was lost somewhere. I looked back to the bust, taking in myself, the curves, the dents. My smirk and my empty eyes, making me look like something not of this world.