A Different Blue(77)

slightly. “It suits you.”

“Scruddy suits me?” I tried not to be hurt. “Why thank you, Mr. Darcy!” I said in my

southern belle accent and fluttered my eyelashes. “You are as romantic as your namesake.”

“Natural suits you. You wear too much makeup,” Wilson shrugged and turned away.

“A girl can never wear too much blue eye shadow,” I quipped, trying to pretend that I didn't

care what he said or what he thought. I ran my hand over my hair, feeling the rumpled strands

and the off-centered ponytail.

“Tell me what you're doing.” Wilson moved to stand next to me. He reached a long finger out

and followed a groove that widened into a hollow space.

“I'm never sure what I'm doing,” I answered honestly.

“Then how will you know when you've done it?” Wilson smiled.

“That's always the question. When to stop. I usually start to get a feel for the shape as I

work. It rarely comes to me before. The inspiration comes through action.” I bit at my lip in

concentration. “Does that make sense?”

Wilson nodded. “If I squint it almost looks like a cello that has been melted down and pulled .

. . like taffy.”

I didn't tell him that I kept seeing a cello too. It seemed too personal, as if it would again

introduce the feelings that had risen within me when I had first heard him play that night in

the high school, the night I'd vowed to change.

“What's that?” Wilson indicated a small hole whorled into the now smooth surface of the wood.

“A worm hole.”

“Will you sand it away?”

I shook my head. “Probably not. I'll just fill it with a little putty. The problem with fixing

one problem is that sometimes you uncover two.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well this is a relatively small worm hole, right?”

[page]He nodded.

“If I start cutting it away, the hole may widen and veer off into a new direction, creating a

much bigger problem or, at the very least, a much bigger hole. There is no such thing as

perfect, and honestly, if the wood were perfect it wouldn't be as beautiful. I seem to recall

someone telling me that 'perfect was boring' anyway.”

“You were listening!” Wilson smiled again.

“I usually am,” I replied without thinking and then worried that I might have given something

away.

“How are you this morning?” Wilson's eyes were grave as he switched subjects.

I stopped filing and flexed my muscles. “Tough as nails,” I said dryly, not wanting to talk

about what I knew he was referring to. I had spent about an hour feeling absolutely hideous,

bent over the toilet in the apartment. But I had managed to keep down about ten crackers and the

fresh air outside was doing me good. I wondered again how long I was going to be able to stay in

the smokey apartment. It wasn't good for me, and it definitely wasn't good for the baby inside

me. My stomach knotted up instantly, and I wondered briefly if part of my on-going, never-ending

nausea was just plain old fear.

“Does your aunt know about the pregnancy?” Okay, now Wilson was being blunt.

“Nope,” I responded shortly.

“Have you been to see a doctor?”

“Not yet.” I didn't make eye contact. I didn't think my trip to Planned Parenthood counted.