I saw him crying in the museum. He was staring at a sculpture and tears were trickling down his cheeks. He allowed them to run into his collar. I wanted to ask him then and there what it was that made him cry. But I didn’t. I waited for him to move on and then I had a look at the sculpture. I hated it.
“Are you ok?” he asked me later. I drank my coffee and said nothing. “You’re awfully quiet,” he continued. “Is something wrong?”
“Not with me.” I was curt.
“I’m not a mind reader, Cass, if you don’t tell me how am I supposed to know?” He put a hand on my shoulder. I shook it off.
“If I’ve hurt you, I’m sorry,” he said the words without inflection.
“I’m not one of your statues.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I saw you. I don’t really know you anymore.”
He turned away. Was that a glimmer of tears in his eyes? Too late.
“Why that sculpture?” I was a fool to ask.
He gave me a sad smile. “She reminded me of you when I first saw you.”
“Did you read its title?”
I nodded. I had read it but hadn’t understood what it meant.
“Galatea, the sculpture Pygmalion made of his perfect woman. Venus granted his wish for her to live.”
“You thought it was me, young again? Whole?”
“Then and now.” He reached for me.
I touched my stoma under my dress.