Cutting through the crowd, Professor Turner approaches Foster and signals toward me. “Mr. Blake, I believe you wanted to meet the artist. This is EJ Cunning.”
“Hello,” Foster says, the hint of a smile flirting at the corner of his mouth.
“Hi,” I respond, a surge of relief spreading across my chest.
“I’ll let you two get acquainted,” the professor says to us. “Please let me know if you have any questions, Mr. Blake.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Professor Turner nods and then makes his way back into the crowd.
“Looks like it’s time to refresh my drink,” Wolfgang says, raising his half-empty glass and taking mine from my hand. “I’ll take care of these.” He then leaves Foster and me alone in front of my work.
“You made it,” I state, unable to contain my exuberance.
“I did.” He smirks. “I was trying to find the right outfit. I didn’t want to seem too…professional. It’s not really my style.”
“Mission accomplished.” My eyes sink into him as he stands before me. “You look perfect.”
The crowd around us begins to dissipate.
All that’s left is Foster.
Me.
Us.
“So, tell me about your work,” Foster says, stepping closer to the castings of a man and a woman’s torsos. “It’s different than the last time I saw it. You’ve gone in a new direction.”
“Foster…I…”
“It’s an interesting title.” He spares me a glance, ignoring my incomplete thought. “You call this oneMore Than Water? I’d like to know a little more about that.”
“Fozzie…” I implore, trying to find the words to express the elephant sitting its ass firmly between us.
“I don’t recall a woman in the original piece. Why the change?”
I sigh, resigned, and join him as he ponders over my piece. “I wasn’t looking deep enough before.”
“And now?”
“Now, I see what was there all along.”
“Tell me more.” He pauses. “Evelyn.” A moment of silence. “I want to hear it all.”
Together, Foster and I speculate over my work, a colorful casting of two figures, a man and a woman, covered in a dripping blue-and-green substance to simulate water. The male counterpart is the original cast of Foster that I submitted for review—a vivid display of the science of man with his palm resting over his heart. Now, in addition to that is the cast of a woman, modeled after my own torso, her hand resting over his heart with her chest angled toward his. Her body is covered with various shapes and vibrant colors, a unique design of her own making. In the space where their hands are joined, an energetic and fiery vermilion flame pattern seeps through both of the figures, gradually fading into their individuality. Just beyond the last licks of the scarlet heat, the water that covers them both melts away over their shoulders and along their lines, sluicing down toward the ground.
“These two individuals,” I begin to tell him, “live under a mask, but it’s not of their doing. They’re both caught in the wave of limited vision. It’s heavy and clouded. It often weighs them down. Sometimes, they feel like they’re drowning. However, there’s more to them than what meets the eye. It’s all about perception.”
“And the place where their hands meet?” he asks, not looking at me. “What is that?”
“It’s something else altogether. It’s the catalyst for them to truly find themselves and each other. It’s the strength they need to fight away the pretenses, the wave.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Not officially, but it stems from their love for one another. It trumps everything else. It cuts through barriers, allowing them to break free as individuals and as a unit.”
Foster’s hand finds mine, weaving our fingers together. He leans down and presses his soft lips to my cheek, and the air passing through my lungs hitches.
