Heavy Metal Woman

In the few letters that he wrote, he often spoke of the places he found himself in. Always, at that time, without her.

He writes, ‘It was night when we arrived at this artist’s studio. His home, actually, but he had all his art there. He did installations, or those pieces—you know, from junk—metal scraps, bits of glass. Art from old cutlery, maybe. Dolls’ torsos, wrought iron chairs. Or a tin cup.’

She smiled at the images blooming forth from his words. She imagined his face flushed with excitement, she imagined him trying to hold it all in.

She imagines, too, his hand flying across the page. ‘There was one piece there, a huge one made of metal strips, steel plates soldered in layers. It was of a woman, her mouth agape, her metallic hair wildly tousled. She had a great big hole where her stomach should be, a cavernous chest, and legs that were longer than normal.’

‘I touched her thighs, ran my fingers along her sharp jaw, fondled her cold wrists.’

She startles, like some brittle, nervous bird. She lifts her eyes from the page, gasping for breath.

Still, he writes, ‘She reminded me of you.’
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