Two Lovers Frozen in Stone
By: James Finn
Tags: Relationships, LGBTQ, Art, Love, Fiction

Timothy held his breath as Betty handed him the screwdriver. “Aren’t you supposed to have a key?” he asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be renting just the one little room?” she teased.

He tried to chuckle, but his heart was beating so loud he could hear it. His teeth chattered, driven by fear and jealousy. The phillips head bit into the first screw, and as he turned, he remembered the day he first laid eyes on Fred, so tall, so black haired, so funny, so sexy, so out of his league.

An artist! A real artist with sculptures in galleries and write-ups in magazines people actually read.

As he started in on the second screw, he remembered the first night, Fred on fire for him, consuming him, engulfing him. He remembered his astonishment at the wild passion of it.

The first hinge gone, he remembered the years passing, and Fred’s slow withdrawal from life. His increasing obsession. His endless hours of work. His doctors saying his illness was manageable if only he’d rest and take care of himself.

The screwdriver wouldn’t bite the last screw. “Damn it, it’s stripped!”

He had to see. He needed to meet Fred’s passion, whatever it was that had stolen his lover from him. He couldn’t bear for another day to pass without knowing.

He sank to knees and sobbed.

“Get back,” Betty growled. “It’s my house. I can do what I want.” She took the claw end of the hammer and ripped and twisted with a wiry strength Timothy never imagined she possessed.

The door fell crooked, out of plumb. She smiled a sweet smile.

Timothy stood. Stepped back. Drew in a deep breath and kicked the door. Hard.

It flew into the attic and slid across the floor. He reached in and fumbled for the switch he’d wired up years before.

Click.

A buzz of electricity filled the air as halogens hummed into life. Solid white trails of dust criss-crossed the room, intersecting in one spot at the very center.

The piece of stone was perhaps half the size it had been when Timothy, Fred, and a moving crew had wrestled it into position. He could see its outline under a black cloth. Angle grinders, sanders, chisels, and tools he didn’t have names for lay scattered around.

Betty took his hand, and they walked up slowly, holding their breath. She grabbed the cloth and pulled. She gasped a second before Timothy did.

He sank to floor, tears streaming down his face, too angry to cry or to speak. He stared. He reached out, then pulled his fingers back, fearing he’d burn himself.

Betty sucked in her breath and put her hands on it. Caressed it. “It’s not even finished? Are you sure? But it’s amazing! It’s …”

“I hate it!” Timothy cried. “I wish I hadn’t come. I wish I’d never seen it.” His breath started coming out in choking sobs. He closed his eyes and rocked back and forth.

“Why, dear? Whatever can be wrong? It’s absolutely beautiful! It’s more. It’s magnificent. It’s genius!”

“I know! You think I don’t? I knew the second you ripped the fucking cloth off it.”

“Sweetie, you aren’t making sense.”

“Because he was right, damn it! He did it! He poured his life into this fucking work of art. He gave it everything. And now he’s shriveled up and almost gone. ”

Betty reached for him. “I’m so sorry,” she said, stroking his hair. “I know how much it has to hurt. But at least you can be proud, no? He’s made this! This beautiful thing! People are going to be talking about it and lining up to see it for, I don’t know …”

“For generations?” Timothy finished for her. “But don’t you understand? That’s the worst part. I can’t be proud of it. I can’t stand to look at it. I’ll always hate it!”

He slept on the dusty floor in the cold that night, looking up once in a while to see Fred and himself frozen in time as luminous young lovers. He tried to feel any small glow of human warmth in the cold stone.

He woke up stiff and lonely, then slumped downstairs to call Fred’s hospital room.