Heterochromic Haze

1- Obsession

The sweltering heat of the studio causes sweat to roll down the side of my head, but it doesn't bother me. The clay in front of me though, that bothers me a lot.

No matter how much I pinch, smooth or mould, it doesn't look right.

I lean back suddenly, rubbing my hands against my apron as I scowl at the sculpture in front of me. It's not right. I decide very suddenly that it's the model. He's too soft. I need interesting angles. I clean my equipment, glancing over at Amyas.

His focus is intent, his tongue sticking out of his mouth ever so slightly. I lean over, glancing at his work before ultimately wishing I hadn't. I can paint ok, but no one paints like Amyas. He sees things differently, a direct connection happening between his far away mind and his brush.

He sees the world differently and it shows in his art.

I sigh heavily, turning away.

I know better than to disturb Amyas while he's working, which is why I'm surprised when he speaks first.

"Wow.." He murmurs quietly and I glance up to find him watching my sculpture.

I angle it towards him, staring at it with a critical eye.

"It's not right." I mutter and Amyas half smiles, meeting my eyes with his deep chocolate gaze.

"Nothing is ever right." He says and I roll my eyes.

"It's the model. I just...I need something else." I say, pursing my lips.

A muse is what I need. Inspiration.

"It's a good sculpture." Amyas says and I groan.

"You might as well call it garbage. I don't want to make 'good' art." I grumble, packing up my tools.

My speciality has always been sculpture and I got in to university because of my forward thinking, my attention to detail and classical methods but this? I'd rather die than spend my life making art that looks like this.

"Such a drama queen." Amyas says with a charming grin, but I know he understands.

"I want to be a genius, or nothing." I quote and Amyas laughs.

"You're talking to the wrong guy. If you want to discuss classic literature, go find Walter." Amyas says good-humouredly.

"I wouldn't do that to your poor brother." I say.

"They'd sure do that to me." He grumbles and I frown.

"You have more than one brother?" I ask and he glances up, amusement flitting across his face.

"Yeah." He says simply, nudging his easel to the side.

Everyone packs up for the day reluctantly, the model quickly throwing on his dressing gown, rolling his neck with a grim look on his face. I sigh, following suit as I feel the painful stretch down my back. Amyas stands up slowly and I join him, grabbing my stuff as we leave together.

We walk out of the studio and for a moment my eyes burn in the bright light of the day. Amyas is watching his phone screen intently and I look away. The breeze across my skin is heavenly and I close my eyes for a moment to relish it.

I run a hand through my long black hair, not caring about the clay that still litters my fingers. It's already all over my corduroy trousers and my shirt sleeves, why not my hair too.

When my eyes re-open, I find myself frozen to the spot I stand.

The thing that I've been looking for, my muse, my inspiration, is stood right in front of me. My hands clench of their own accord, desperate to wrap themselves around the clay, to recreate the perfection stood before me.