“Are you leaving?” I asked, my voice laced with disappointment. Elpidio stopped dead in his tracks.

“Yes,” he growled low. His voice was broken, but I didn’t think it was in anger, more in distress.

I sensed how badly he wanted to leave. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and his broad muscled back bunched impossibly tight under the thin material of his shirt.

I didn’t want him to go. I wanted him to explain every piece to me like he did with the man split by daggers. I wanted to see this world he’d created through his eyes. I wanted to talk to the man whose work I cherished more than any collection I’d ever studied or seen. I wanted him to explain his life-journey so I could create the exhibition his genius deserved. And if I were being true to myself, I wanted to get to know him too.

“Please,” I whispered desperately and Elpidio cautiously turned to face me.

The expression he wore wasn’t welcoming. In fact, it could only be described as downright threatening. But I had an insatiable need to know more. I didn’t know Elpidio, not at all. But something inside of me wanted to help him heal.

One thing was true. I knew his work. I’d had a glimpse of the real man inside through every curve of his marble creations. He could hide behind the tattoos and long hair, but he couldn’t hide what he displayed in plain sight. His sculptures were him screaming to the world that he was flawed.

“You never name your work,” I stated as Elpidio’s eyes tensed in overt agitation. I stepped forward, looking up nervously through my long lashes. “Your work… you never give them titles.”

Elpidio shrugged, but that flash of insecurity—or was it reluctance?—I’d seen earlier, again washed across his face. I stepped forward again. He didn’t back away as we stood toe to toe.

My hands were shaking. He was so beautifully fascinating… that Latin skin, those forbidding facial tattoos, the heavy coating of ink that covered the real man who lay beneath.

“Why?” I asked. “Why leave your beautiful pieces nameless? Naming them gives them life. A baptism of your creation, so to speak.”

He glared at me. I swallowed hard, feeling rattled. But Elpidio, this time, leaned forward to me, and a chill ran down my spine in anticipation of what he would do.

“Naming them makes it all too fucking real,” he whispered, his hot breath skirting past my face.

“I don’t underst—” I went to argue, but Elpidio cut me off with his severe expression.

“I don’t fucking deserve all this. I deserve none of this shit… Believe me… I never fucking wanted it… but I got it all the damn same.”

I inhaled a ragged breath as his large body towered over me. I fluttered my eyes to meet his. His almost-ebony eyes flared with heat.

“That’s not true,” I whispered. His work, more than anyone’s, deserved to be on display. People should see his works of art.

“You don’t know me, girl,” he disagreed through gritted teeth.

“I know your work,” I countered, my heart breaking into a sprint at his surge of aggression and his condescending use of the word ‘girl.’ “More than anyone else, I know your work…”

Elpidio watched me so intently that I thought I might collapse under the weight of his stare. Then, to my utter surprise, he dropped his scowl and his eyes dulled with defeat. His hand reached up and took a strand of my long hair between his finger and thumb, rubbing them together, before his gaze locked on to mine.

The air seemed as thick as the densest fog around us, until Elpidio dropped my hair as though it were a naked flame. A startled, disbelieving expression set clearly on his face, like he was shocked he’d just touched me.

He quickly turned on his heel.

This time I knew he was leaving, regardless of my protest. As he threw open the heavy curtains, I asked, “The titles…?”

Elpidio’s fist wrapped around the black material and his head dropped. “Do you really need them that much?” he asked shortly.

A flicker of hope sparked in my chest. “They would help me… immensely. People like to put a name to a sculpture, and they love it if there’s some explanation behind its creation. The press like it too, so they can reference their favorite piece in their reviews. I’ve already had requests for that from some major industry heavy hitters.”

“Fuck sake,” he hissed under his breath, but I heard it. I waited on tenterhooks for his answer, every part of me trembling from our strange encounter, when he finally dropped his shoulders. “Fine, whatever.”

“Thank you,” I replied, my stomach swirling with butterflies.

Elpidio drew the curtains. “I’ll come by ‘round the same time tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” I replied, heat infusing my blood at the thought of working with him again.

Just as he turned to leave, I quickly asked, “Elpidio?”

He stopped but didn’t turn.

“Any chance you’re from Bama?” His shoulders stiffened. “I only ask because I’m from Birmingham, and I picked up on your accent too.”

He hesitated. “Mobile,” he reluctantly replied, quietly. A small smile spread on my lips at the thought we were from the same state, when he added, “It’s Elpi. Elpi,” he emphasized.

“Okay,” I whispered, wanting to say more. But then Elpi pounded through the parted curtains, leaving me next to the sculpture we’d just discussed. As it sat in the glare of the silver moonlight, I gave a long drawn-out exhale, as a cold shiver of realization engulfed me.