Second Chance for Romance полностью

“Rococo is a more pastoral style,” I said as we climbed the basement stairs. “Think about Michelangelo versus Bernini versus Falconet. That’s the progression.”

“I only know one of those guys,” he said with a laugh.

“Okay, then check out the Pietà, the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, and the Seated Cupid. I have a book you can borrow.”

“Awesome, thanks. I have a midterm this week, and I wanna knock it outta the park.”

I dashed up to the third floor and stuck my head into Christy’s studio.

“Quick art project. Be right back.” Then I grabbed a big coffee table book from my own studio and thundered back down.

“Here you go,” I told Trip. I found the pages. “These are sculptures, duh, but they’ll give you the general idea. Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo, in that

order. Just remember: rebirth, flourishes, pastoral. Got it?”

“Yep. Thanks.”

I nodded and headed back upstairs.

“Okay, sorry about that,” I told Christy as I caught my breath. “Where were we? Right. We can only do two lamps. The third overloads the circuit.

Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I think this is enough light.” She poured a glass of wine and handed it to me. She’d already finished half of hers. On top of the two glasses we’d each had with dinner, she had a healthy buzz.

Not tipsy, I decided. Just a little loose.

“Are you ready?”

“Sure,” I said. “Where do you want me?”

“Over by the couch. And… um…”

I arched an eyebrow.

“Do you mind…?”

“Taking off my shirt?” I suggested helpfully.

She nodded. “And maybe your…?”

“Pants too?”

“Um… yes, please. And could you…?”

“I’m running out of clothes here,” I joked.

“Well, the Gaul is nude.”

“I’m not the Gaul. Besides, I wasn’t nude for your first sketches.”

“About that…,” she ventured. “Siobhan thinks maybe you should be. For this one, I mean. I wasn’t sure, but she said yes. It’s better that way, she said.

More classical. And then I thought, it would make a better artistic statement.

Don’t you think? We want to show the replicant in pain, don’t we? To show that he’s human, too? He’s been stripped of his armor and even his clothes.

All he has left is his sword. He—”

“Whoa!” I said with a laugh. “Slow down. You’re chattering.”

“Sorry.”

“And he wouldn’t have a sword, I don’t think.”

“Why not?”

“The replicant is a futuristic warrior. He’d have a blaster rifle or something.”

She snapped her fingers. “You’re right! Let’s go. We need to find one.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now! Come on!”

So we headed downstairs. I stopped halfway to the front door.

“Better get a jacket.”

“Right,” she said, and skipped back up the stairs. “I still have yours,” she called back. “From the other night. I’ll get it too.”

Wren came out of the dining room. She didn’t smirk, exactly, but I could see it in her eyes.

“Where are you two off to?” she asked.

“To find a blaster rifle.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“For her project?”

I nodded.

“You’re going to pose nude, right?”

“How…?”

She grinned.

“But I thought Siobhan…?”

“Oh, Siobhan might’ve suggested it first, but I told her it was a good idea.

‘Paul will love it,’ I said. ‘It’ll make a great artistic statement.’” She laughed at my poleaxed expression. She turned to go and shot her index finger into the air. “Wren, 1. Paul, 0.”

Christy and I eventually found a Return of the Jedi Electronic Laser Rifle at Kmart. It was after nine o’clock when we returned home, so I thought we’d call it a night. I was wrong.

“I need to get started,” Christy said. “I don’t have much time.”

“But…” I wanted to write my letter.

“You said you’d help. Please? I need you. You’re my muse.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

Upstairs in her studio she turned on the extra lights and reached to plug in the third.

“No! Not that one.”

“Why not?”

“Remember the fuse?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

I wrapped the cord around the base and set it in the hall, just to be sure.

Christy picked up her wineglass and took a sip like we’d never left.

“That’s better,” she said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I suddenly felt self-conscious, especially since I knew Wren had set me up. “You sure I need to be nude? I mean, you can fudge the details, right?

You don’t really need to—?”

“Why are you shy all of a sudden?”

“I’m not,” I fibbed.

“It has to be realistic, Paul. That’s the only way to show pathos. It won’t work if you— if he has something to protect him. The replicant is dying.

Alone. With nothing left.”

“Including his dignity,” I muttered.

“No! That’s all he does have. He isn’t afraid to die. He’s facing it with courage. He doesn’t need a spacesuit or armor or anything. Everything he has left is on the inside, and they can’t take that away from him. Don’t you understand? It’s what makes him human.”

I really couldn’t argue with her logic, especially since I’d told her what Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? was about in the first place. Little did I know she’d use it against me, I groused as I filled my wineglass and drained it. Dutch courage.