10 A.M.
I grabbed her hand, ignoring how it pulled the tubes attached to mine. Despite my blindfold, I knew her smooth skin—unchanged from the day we met.
“It’s time, Med. Tonight.”
She flinched. “I’ve brought stronger painkillers.”
I shook my head carefully. Normally, the blindfold wouldn’t slip, but I was thinning, transforming into a living corpse.
“I don’t want you to remember me like this. I want it to be like—”
1972
I stood naked, arms stretched to the ceiling, legs crossed, chest pushed forward. A triangle shape, the voice called it over tinny speakers. Struggling to keep the pose, a flush crept up my cheeks.
I’d been a nude model before and didn’t bat an eye at a room full of tipsy, tittering painters. Standing alone, my nakedness reflected in the two-way mirror, was different.
Anyone could be on the other side.
I squirmed, wanting to turn away.
“Still,” the voice commanded.
It sounded female, accented.
I dropped my arms.
“I can’t do this, sorry.” I was already shrugging into my dress. “I know you’re famous and no one’s seen you and that’s part of your shtick, but…”
I hurried out, cursing myself for walking away from rent money.
A door slammed behind me, an androgynous person in leather and bike helmet following, only olive-skinned hands exposed.
“Wait!”
I paused.
“You’re the right one for this piece. I could be in the room if you wore a blindfold.”
“Can’t I see you?”
The helmet shifted from side to side. It was strangely alluring.
“Why me?”
“You look like you could reach the stars.”
I wavered, charmed despite myself. “How long do you need me for?”
12 P.M.
I unhooked the various machines beeping with my vitals. It must be today, or I would no longer manage. Med had an infinite number of tomorrows. For her, it’d never be the right day.
I didn’t dare to remove the blindfold as I wheeled through the house. It didn’t matter. I’d lived here thirty years.
Arriving in the garden, I freed my eyes. She never came here, among her statues.
First came the row of Meds—faceless, detailed, realistic, and exaggerated. Classic and modernist. Clay and marble. She’d done them all.
They’d been featured in Vanity Fair years ago. That was the closest anyone had come to seeing Med’s face.
Tonight, I’d see.
1973
I never peeked as she sketched, then carved my likeness. Instead, we talked.
The unknowable Med became known to only me, like I was also chipping away at her, revealing the shape underneath.
I learned her family was Greek, though she did not keep in contact. That they’d wanted her to marry a man and condemned her for her disinterest.
That she loved wine and disliked the sun.
That she thought herself cursed and hid from the world.
Art was her love and life.
“It’s a way to understand what it means to be human,” she explained. “The only way I can see myself.”
I nodded as if I understood.
When she revealed the otherworldly form she claimed I’d inspired, I looked only at her hidden one, and asked, “Can you make me feel like that?”
4 P.M.
In the center of the garden, my form stood, low-hanging clouds brushing the raised fingertips. I was beautiful and young and unknowing forever.
Steps crunched on the path behind me. In fear, I raised the blindfold--I wasn’t ready.
1980
In perfect darkness, skin slid against skin. Under my fingers, her face took shape—the too large nose, the high cheekbones, the lips I imagined velvety red.
Between kisses, I described every feature I’d never seen.
We were in our bed. Our house. Hiding from the world.
Someone tore open the blackout curtain, exposing us.
My eyes clenched shut.
His scream cut off.
8 P.M.
The paparazzi photographer stood eternally facing my carved form, as if it was me he’d stalked. Where I was Med’s dream crafted in stone, he was a study in realism. Each detail—the horrified eyes, the faltering grip on a camera, the flinch—preserved.
Further away were others, old and new, covered in ivy and cracked. I’d been the stone garden’s only caretaker and I could no longer care for even myself.
Once, I wanted to break them in primitive fear. Now, I saw their terrible beauty. We all had to die, but like this, part of us lived forever.
2020
“Will you be lonely?” I asked.
“Always.”
“Will you remember me?”
“Always, ὁ ἀστήρ μου,” she said, calling me her star.
“I want to see you. Then you’ll always have me.” It was not the same, but it was the only thing I could offer.
“Not yet.” She mumbled in Greek, a curse or blessing. A prayer to ancient gods.
8 P.M.
Med helped me to my feet. I staggered to my statue, embracing it like we’d held each other in the dark.
My eyes refused to open. Terror at facing my death and love.
“It’s your time,” Med said.
Rain fell on the Garden of Statues, the sky making stone weep.
For the first time without a barrier or blind, I saw Med.
Olive skin. Not a wrinkle. More beautiful than I’d imagined.
I no longer felt my feet. Didn’t struggle to stand. My pulse slowed, and I smiled.
“Your eyes are brown. I always imagined green.”
She laughed. “Only you would compliment my eyes and not remark on the snakes.”
Venomous green, they writhed on her uncovered head.
I wanted to reach for one—what did it matter now?—but my joints had stiffened, hands petrified.
“You don’t feel like chopping my head off?” she asked.
I had already said my goodbye, declared my love a thousand ways.
Medusa Gorgo could never see herself, never have anyone look upon her for more than a moment.
I no longer felt my struggling heart and aching lungs. My eyes, covered for so long, would never close again. “I see only someone reaching for the stars.”
