The Edge

“I could, yes,” he said.

“Come on. I’ll make you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s the least I can do for someone who entered but didn’t break, and who thought my studio would be as much of a safe haven for him as it is for... me.”

Her smile retreated with these words, and that bothered Devine far more than he had thought possible. He barely knew the woman, but he wanted to make her happy, to make her whole again.

They left her studio and she led him into the main house through a rear entrance that opened into a cathedral-sized kitchen.

“Damn,” said Devine. “How do you not get lost going from the fridge to the stove?”

“It comes with directions,” she quipped. “Seriously, the place was set up for a home with a dozen servants.”

“And how many do you have now?”

“You’re looking at her. I’ve got some eggs, fresh berries, ham, avocados, and home-baked sourdough.”

“All of that sounds great.”

She pointed to a cupboard. “Plates, utensils, and cups over there. How do you like your eggs?”

“Any way you care to make them.”

She brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and he helped her get the items out of the fridge.

“That looks new,” said Devine, staring at the Sub-Zero double wide.

“Courtesy of my dear, entrepreneurial brother. He’s been slowly fixing up the place.”

They decided on an omelet. He did the chopping and slicing of the onions, peppers, tomatoes, and mushrooms while she split and spooned out the avocado, put the fruit into a bowl, and put two slices of her sourdough in the toaster. She mixed the eggs and other items and cooked it in a stovetop pan.

Later, she sat across from him in the breakfast nook, sipped her coffee, and watched him chow down.

“You were hungry,” she observed.

He checked his watch. It was after ten. Shit.

“I usually eat before now. Where’s Dak?”

“Probably already at work.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“It’s a big house. He lives in one wing and I live in another.”

“And it all works?’

“So far.” She rapped on the tabletop. “So what happened last night? You said you had trouble with some guys? What kind of trouble?”

“Trouble enough.”

“Then you can stay here as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” said Devine, who was surprised by the offer, but also humbled by it.

“Are they after you?” she asked.

“Three of them aren’t.”

“So you, what, arrested them or something?”

“Or something, yeah.”

“So you’re not going to tell me what happened?’

“I thought I just did.”

She sat back and took him in, it seemed to Devine, line by line, crevice by crevice.

Artist as observer, he concluded. And it was a little intimidating, as though she could see through the flesh and bone and home right in on the thoughts right now hovering in his mind.

“You know what I really love about creating art?”

“No, what?” asked Devine.

“It’s all about perspective. Of both the artist and the viewer.”

He finished his coffee and rose to pour another cup and took her empty cup to refill. “How so?”

“You looked at my sculpture of the big penis roped and the testicles cuffed and concluded it was meant to symbolize women pushing back against a man’s baser instincts.”

He sat back down after handing Alex a full cup. “And it wasn’t?”

“From your perspective it clearly was, which is why you voiced that opinion.”

“And from your perspective?”

“You looked at it from a male’s point of view. As the artist I look at it differently.”

“You mean from a woman’s point of view?”

“I mean from a neutral observer’s perspective.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing,” said Devine half-jokingly.

“There can be, if one tries,” she said, her voice low, modulated, and serious.

“So, as a neutral observer?” he said, losing his amused expression.

She slid her finger along the top of the table. “Life can be unfair for anyone, those with a penis and those without.”

“Then why—”

“A man can be trapped by his own masculinity, or what is perceived as masculinity. Dick chained, balls cuffed. They feel they have to act in a certain way because that is what society as a whole expects. For some men it’s no problem. It’s who they are anyway. Rambo or whatever. But that’s not most men. So most men end up living a life that is not really... theirs. It’s dictated by societal expectation.”

“And women?”