Modeled after Giovanni Boccaccio's classic from the 14th Century, this collection similarly brought 100+ short stories to Wattpad readers. The original's premise was simple: ten individuals entertained themselves over a span of ten days by telling a...
"She never buys a round of drinks, but she can definitely afford it."
"She never even talks, what does he see in her?"
"I hear she let's him photograph anything. And I mean anything."
That evening the she in question has arrived in a silver evening gown, which clings to her slender body like an iridescent snake's skin that has just begun to molt. She does not acknowledge the three women, she keeps her eyes on him all evening. He is in a tux. Loud, charismatic, the center of the room. He holds court and she looks on lovingly.
The three women continue to re-apply their lipstick, painting over the dry parts of their lips, like children being very careful to color within the lines. They press and flatten the fronts of their dresses. They skim their fingers across the gel in their hair and adjust any single hairs that have dared to come out of order. They watch each other with communal judgments, hidden behind common smiles. They continue.
"Once I complimented her lipstick and asked if I could try it on. She stared at me like a dog meeting a cat for the first time. Then she told me she was feeling ill and better not. Has she never been around another woman?"
"I heard her father has been photographing her nude since she was ten years old. Disgusting! Who would let their child grow up like that? Where was her mother? No wonder she is how she is."
"I don't think she was ever taught manners, or decorum. I heard she was supposed to be helping him at the Bal Blanc party at the chateau of the Petit Blancs. While he worked all night, she flirted with men－in front of him! She was indifferent. She didn't even care how she came across."
The women flutter back to the gallery. A crowd has gathered for the photography show. They are clustered around two black and white photographs.
The first is of a woman, on her knees and bent over, prostrate. She is shot from behind, her hand shields the back of her body. It narrowly avoids obscenity, like a piece of artful pornography made for personal consumption. It is titled 'Prayer' and is signed Man Ray. The women titter and exchange knowing glances.
The woman in question stares unashamed at the photograph. Her eyes assess it and narrow; her head tilts ever so slightly. She does not notice the three women. The crowd moves in unison to the next in the gallery.
The second photograph shuts up the three women fast. The crowd moves and a hush falls. There is a large glass bell jar and under it is a woman's head with her eyes closed. Her mouth is open, as if gasping for air. Her head as if on a chopping block. She appears as if in a dream, a figment of someone's imagination made manifest. She is trapped in glass as thick as amber, a piece of fossilized desire.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"It's entrancing."
"It's beautiful."
"It's mine."
The photo in question is titled 'Hommage à D. A. F. de Sade.'Signed: Man Ray.
The third voice comes not from the gossiping women but from the woman in question who looks as if she has been slapped in the face. As if in slow motion, a single glass tear rolls down her cheek. Even in pain, she looks like a photograph they can't help but admit to themselves. They have never seen such rawness plastered across such pristine skin. They also see that there is anger that boils just beneath the surface, covered by a thin veneer of insecurity. The women can now understand her coldness as protection, as naïveté, as guard.
The man smiles, accepting accolades, taking small imperceptible bows with his body.
The women watch this unfold. They blush at the intimacy, the stench of lovers' laundry that hangs sadly in the air. They are not new to this particular brand of humiliation but they are out of their depth, never having been robbed. Their degradations have been minor, but they have been their own. Pride and deference prevent them from speaking up. They lower their eyes, look away, look anywhere but at him.
He laughs at a joke someone has told. He lights a cigarette. He nervously flicks the cap on his Zippo, again and again.
His eyes catch hers. The monologue she could tell is long but it is told in a single unblinking stare. He breaks from her and looks away.
The woman swims in a dry bed of betrayal. Her palms sweat. Cold washes over her. Her mouth is dry. She longs to take it all back. She lives the last year in reverse: The portraits. Every time they made love. How she sought him out to teach her. Her arrival in Paris. The boat. Leaving her father. She unmakes everything she has made. It is not enough.
The three women say nothing, but they gather their coats and leave.
For some reason, this gives the woman strength. An artist without an audience is a man screaming into a canyon. Without a muse, he's nothing but a eunuch.
The portrait is a gift. It is a coronation, commemorating the day she surpassed him. The bell jar lifts. The woman walks away.
