Free Numb by Sean Ferrell Page B

“Make fists,” she said, and when I did she let go of my left hand and played both her hands over my right. Her fingernails scratched delicate lines on the back of my hand and circled the smooth purple blossom-shaped scars that freckled the skin between my fingers.
    She said, “I want you to tell me when I am touching a scar.” She started at my pinkie, and as she crossed over the gap between pinkie and ring finger I said, “Now.”
    â€œHow many? Just one?”
    â€œI don’t know. Definitely more than one.”
    She felt farther, past the ring finger toward my middle finger, and I said, “There too.”
    She made a soft, thoughtful whisper and I said, “You know, I have scars between each of my fingers. And my toes. And some other parts of my body.”
    She opened up my fist and squeezed the skin between my thumb and finger. “It’s so soft.” She stroked it quietly. “It feels like a flower,” she said. Outside, Michael laughed, presumably into his phone.
    She ran her hands up my arm, stopping occasionally when she met a bump or ridge. “Are all of these scars from performing?”
    â€œNo.” I blushed again. “I can be a little clumsy.”
    She laughed. “You’re joking. How could you trust that you won’t really hurt yourself?”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t think about it.”
    She reached up to my face. “If this makes you uncomfortable, let me know.” She pressed her fingers against my chin, my cheeks, up my temples, and across my forehead. “You have some lines up here,” she said. “An old scar?”
    â€œYeah. That’s nearly gone. You can barely see it.”
    â€œWhat’s it from?”
    â€œA door fell on me.”
    She smiled. Her eyes moved around me but rarely rested on me. Sometimes they went through me. Michael had told me that our first session would be for introductions. When Hiko said that I should come back the next day, I wasn’t surprised. I was surprised, though, when she said, “I hope you don’t mind working nude.”
    â€œFor the portrait?”
    She laughed. “Yes, for the portrait. I do all my work as nudes.”
    I assumed she meant only I would be nude.
    Â 
    I WENT BACK the next day at midafternoon. The clouds of the previous day had turned to a thunderstorm overnight and the streets in her neighborhood smelled steam-cleaned. There were still puddles along the curbs and under cars. I found Hiko on her front stoop. She lookedas if she were staring across the street and it didn’t occur to me that I might startle her when I stopped.
    She must have heard my footsteps halt because she tilted her head, and her sightless eyes shifted. “Hello?” Her voice was strong, but just underneath hid a quiver.
    â€œIt’s me,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
    For a moment she didn’t say anything, and I imagined she ran through a list of denials, but finally she said, “Only a little.” Her voice and smile were both soft.
    She stood and followed the handrail down into her doorway. She knew just when to duck her head where a low-hanging pipe drooped above the entrance.
    She showed me a back room where examples of her work covered a wall. They hung in sturdy frames; she called them “three-dimensional paintings.” Most of them were gray and covered with massive amounts of detail and texture. There were faces, some body parts, and many abstracts.
    â€œYou can see I don’t concern myself with color.” Some of the sculpture-paintings were thick clay; others had paint. Some were layers of many colors, scraped with a knife. Others were just one or two tones. Blue-green. Canary yellow. Or gray, or white. Color was mostly an accident of material, of white plaster or gray clay, though sometimes it appeared as if she’d added dyes to the mix.
    â€œI either have someone pick