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metallic. It sings about our pain, about the tension between us. I listen, and so does he. Weakness runs through our limbs, it twists in secret places inside us. He does his best to hold still, bravely maintaining his pose. And so do I.
    The studio lights fall over him, casting shadow over shadow over the sharp, fragmented features of his face. They combine into a constantly changing countenance of definite indecision. Head tipped back in a most awkward manner, he seems to be straining, somehow, to look up at me. A sentence must have just died on his lips, for they are slightly parted.
    Listen, I tell myself... Listen—can you hear?
    But no. There is no breath left in him. Maybe there never was. So fragile, so irregular are his ribs that one of them, I think, may be missing.
    He falls to his knees right here, at my feet, bending over backwards almost to the point of falling to pieces, and so, greatly straining every wire in his armature. His ankles are chained to a wooden base, where an assortment of chisels, pairs of pliers, sharp implements of every kind, wires thick and thin, hammers and nails are strewn in no apparent order, all around him. Am I chained, too? If so, I cannot tell.
    Standing behind him on tiptoe, and leaning ever so lightly against his shoulder, I spread my arms. I feel entirely free—if not for these wires—to fly away. I have no need, I think, for this wooden base; nor do I find any use for this armature. I can tear out my ties. I can leave him. I can take wing! I can fly! Really, I am pretty sure I can.
    And yet, it is my curiosity that will not allow me to do so.
    For now that I am afflicted with vision, I appreciate how obscure things really are. The sharper the perception—the more complex the interpretation. There is nothing here, I tell myself: nothing but doubt. Every object is merely a shell, a container for so many uncertainties. And so I cannot help but wonder, Who am I? Did she make me in her image?
    And who is he? What has happened here between us? What is our story? How will it unfold? How will it end? How much longer will we remain here, connected yet apart, suspended like this in frozen animation? And why, why are we in this place, at this particular moment? For whom are we posing?
    Meanwhile, the Creator goes on to define me, curve by curve; tightening a wrinkle here, shaping a muscle there, carving my armpits, my wrists, my fingers, lifting and turning my head, polishing my skin, until—little by little, bit by bit—my body becomes silky smooth and my posture becomes light-footed, and ever more graceful.
    And before long I sense a change. No longer am I clay; I am matter no more. Somehow, her touch has awakened a soul in me, teased a divinity out of dirt. I have become an icon, an embodiment of something larger. An eternal quality, an idea, more profound than Beauty, more lasting than Youth.
    And so I find myself thinking, I am not an object. I am more than merely a figure. What I am is an idea:
    I, Woman.
    Can he name me? Can he guess who I am?
    I whisper to him, I hint—I nag, even—but he is obstinately silent and furthermore, refuses to hear me. His head seems to hang down even lower than before; which may be explained, I tell myself, simply by the force of Gravity.
    I call out to him. I signal in any one of my subtle ways—rising even higher on my tiptoe, stretching out my arms to snap his coils, pressing my weight into his back—but no matter how hard I try, he goes on giving me the the same old, cold shoulder. Leaning against it, I stand there telling myself, Never mind. Let me forget how lonely I am. Let me try to amuse myself. So I invent different names for him. It is the name Adam he ignores most passionately.
    Meanwhile she wields the chisel with great flare, gouging his body in several places, and excavating the sockets of his eyes. I know how it must feel. Throughout the process, his jaws remain tightly locked. He may be beside himself with the usual agony; he may