Chapter 22 - ETHAN
Leo disappears on Tuesdays, only once every two weeks.
It’s like a secret, hidden behind a cloak.
He’s devoted to his craft and I admire anyone who commits themselves to whatever makes them feel fulfilled.
But this is part of his world I have yet to see with my own eyes.
I know he would never invite me willingly, but I decide to do the next best thing and stalk him.
Tonight the city is damp, the air heavy with recent rain.
I don’t follow him closely because I don’t need to.
Leo moves through the world as if apologizing for existing; he leaves a trail of anxiety behind him.
The way he slows before corners in case of someone on the other side.
The way he pauses before doors, always checking around himself.
The building he enters is industrial and anonymous, a warehouse slotted into a neighborhood that pretends not to see it. No signage meant for outsiders. Only a rusted door, a dim light burning like a patient eye. I’m intrigued.
Watching from across the street, I see him hesitate before going in. No doubt questioning himself about why he is there, what’s the point. All narratives I’m sure that woman of his has drilled into his mind.
When he walks through the door, I wait just long enough for the echo of the slammed door to diminish. Then I follow.
Inside, the space is vast, loud and bright.
The air thick with metal and heat and old electricity.
Sound doesn’t bounce in here, it sinks to the ground.
Machines murmur, and tools hum faintly like insects in the night.
Shadows stretch tall against concrete walls stained with years of creation.
The place looks like it’s ready to collapse, but the rawness and dirt of the warehouse is beautiful in its unapologetically exposed truth.
There is no covering up mistakes. Nothing is here to lure you in with promises of luxury.
It’s a hub of dangerous creativity, and I like it.
I remain near the perimeter, unseen trying to blend in with the background. There are many people here, all distracted at their workstations, focused on their art. It’s a varied mix of old and young people, but they all share the same thing. Passion.
My eye wanders and then I see him over in the far side corner. Leo has removed his coat, his sleeves are rolled and his hands are bare.
He stands before a half-formed sculpture.
All I see are steel ribs rising from a base like the ghost of a creature, still deciding what it will be, and it’s not small.
I notice Leo’s demeanor is completely different in here.
He stands tall, moves with certainty and a confidence that’s sexy as hell.
This is where he comes alive. Well, here and in my bed.
I watch as he puts on his gloves and lifts a tool with familiarity, his fingers steady, experienced and precise in his movements. Those hands that can tell stories no one has listened to properly.
The change in Leo is violent. He is focused and alive with every motion.
Covering his face with protective gear, I study him as the machine he uses sings as he guides the metal, sparks flaring briefly like dying sparklers.
For something so dangerous he looks so serene and elegant.
Like he belongs. Like he is an extension of the metals he shapes.
This is who he is when no one is watching, and the jealousy hits me without warning. Not for the work he is creating, but for the version of him I do not own yet.
He leans closer to the sculpture, examining the curve of a welded joint, adjusting, correcting, reshaping. His hands are confident and exact, touching the metal the way most people touch lovers.
I feel something dark and feral stretch inside of me. He belongs here, and not in a mailroom, not inside a life that shrinks him to half the person he is.
He steps back, removing his face guard, assessing his work. That beautiful face is now covered in a sheen of sweat. So hot.
For the first time since I've known him, he smiles without restraint, a smile only reserved for here. I’m watching the only honest version of him that remains and I want to see more. Before I know it, I step closer, the sound of my shoe against concrete is barely audible.
He doesn’t turn as he’s too lost in what he is building. The sculpture is abstract, bones of something that might become wings or a spine rendered in metal. It leans forward, unfinished, and I’m eager to know what the end result will be.
He circles it slowly, touching it here, adjusting there, murmuring to himself too quietly for me to hear.
He then steps back far enough that I can see his face fully.
Sweat darkens his hair near his temples, and those beautiful eyes are bright.
Unburdened. I've never seen him like this and it angers me that there is a version of him untouched by me. It feels like theft.
I retreat back to the corner, not wanting to be seen as this is his moment, and I just watch.
I watch and learn more about him. Memorizing every single detail.
I want to know what he is thinking. I want to know how fast his heart is beating.
I want to know if his sweat tastes different here than the sweat from when he has been fucked within an inch of his life.
These are desires that I can get the answers to, because I decide I will give him a workshop.
But not something hidden away, something vast and private, closer to the inner city, nearer to my home.
After planning a checklist in my head of the steps I need to take to secure a unit, I see that he has stilled, his shoulders tense.
For one moment, I think he has sensed me, but he quickly relaxes and returns to his work.
He continues to sculpt with love and care, before it’s time for him to say goodbye.
His reluctance to leave confirms that this is where he is meant to be.
I watch as he tidies up his work area and leaves.
I step forward only after the door closes behind him and look at the sculpture in more detail.
It’s rough and incomplete, but it’s his. Soon, everything will be his if that is his wish.
I turn away, already planning the architecture of his freedom, figuring out how to remove the last thread tying him to a life that does not deserve him. His wife.