My first memory was darkness. Sudden consciousness out of nothing. Slowly, my body melted and softened, and began to move. Next came brilliance: light, pouring into my newly-formed eyes. I had not yet learned to see, but already I knew what it felt like to be blinded. As my vision coalesced into existence, the first thing I saw was a wiry young sculptor, hanging around my neck, covering my face with kisses. It was…
I made her to be perfect. She was so unlike other women. She was smooth and firm and silent, always silent. God, I could talk to her for hours. Even after Aphrodite made her flesh, she retained that innocent silence. Those first few months were flawless. Teaching her to speak, teaching her to walk, teaching her to make love. Beautiful, naïve, and curious: she was everything I could have ever hoped for.
I awoke to his kisses, to his voice in my ear, to the pressure of his body. The first hours of my existence were spent perpetually in his embrace. I was, by all evidence, an extension of his being. Where did my body end and his begin? And was it indeed my own? His caress, at first languorous and tender, began to quicken. His grip strengthened, his hands probing and insistent. Confused, uncertain, I acquiesced, moving as he pressed my legs open to allow him access. The initial penetration was brief. Four spasming thrusts, a shuddering gasp, and he lay limp against me. I began to wonder: were we in fact one entity? Though he lay unconscious, drained, I felt fully awake: alert, curious, and—what was this feeling?—
Perfection can be more trying than you expect. At times her childishness is alluring: invigorating and seductive. At others her ignorance verges on irritating. I could swear that she intentionally procrastinates learning those domestic tasks, which should form much of her daily life. If I didn’t know better, I would say that she has no interest in learning to cook or clean the house. She’ll hardly so much as pick up a broom if I don’t instruct and parrot the movements for her. By the time I’m satisfied, I’ve had to do half the work. It’s intolerable. Yet love makes a man patient. Aphrodite would not have given me this woman if she were not perfect. I must be missing something.
I learned slowly at first, but ever faster, those first steps paving the way for greater strides. Yet my interests and his seemed to diverge wildly. I had learned only the most rudimentary language before he lost interest in conversation. I had hardly picked up the stylus before he replaced it with a broom and set me about the house. Indeed, he seemed far more eager to teach me to cook and clean, than to reason or analyze. Perhaps his own capacity for logic was simply limited? Maybe he would be a more adept instructor of the home and hearth. I was mistaken, however. His spasmodic, cursory motions seemed ill-suited to the tasks he executed, and he seemed upset when I, copying his form, performed as poorly as he. Still, with consideration I was able to deduce the proper methods and saw my efficiency improve. When I tried to share these novel tactics with him, however, he rebuffed me. He was uninterested in learning what he called “women’s work” and became nearly tearful at the prospect of being corrected.
For the first few months our passion was so great that we never wanted to leave the house. But Galatea has learned to speak and begun asking to go out. She is beautiful, still, and her voice falls on my ears like a burbling brook. Yet she uses her miraculous voice to ask for things she does not understand. Other people are a curiosity to her, because she does not know them as I do. In men she sees only their virile forms, their proud gait. She has not yet encountered the depths of their depravity, and I must use all my influence to ensure she never does. Women, if anything, are worse. She expresses interest in meeting other women, but two minutes with the tramps in town would be enough to spoil my perfect wife. They would simply love to turn her against me, to reduce her to their foul station. I won’t let it happen.
The first time I bled, he looked as confused as I felt, his face pale and scared. He strode from the room and locked himself in his studio for three days. I was uncertain how to address it. Within a few months there was little unstained cloth left in the house. Asking him for advice was unprofitable. His disgust was plain, his guidance consisted of thrusting a towel at me with instructions to “fix it.” Was the bleeding simply symptomatic of my birth from stone? He, my only companion, certainly did not suffer from it. His revulsion made that clear. He called it a “women’s affliction,” yet my appeals to meet with a woman, who might be able to provide some explanation, met only fiery rhetoric about “leprous whores” and “pox-ridden filth.” This suggested a certain unwillingness to grant my request. I would need to devise a different strategy. Until then, the bleeding would have to continue. Still, it had its perks. Over time, I determined that I could tell him “Mars approaches,” and be ensured of a few private days. He never seemed much concerned with keeping track of the cycle.
There must be something intrinsic in woman, making her seditious and disloyal. My instructions were perfectly clear: ‘remain in the house until I return.’ Yet when I arrived home after a long day in my studio, I discovered the house empty. I wept and rent my clothes as I walked from room to room, calling her name. Finally, as I lay curled on the floor in the anteroom, weeping piteously, she walked in through the door, a basket of food in her arms. Anger coursed through my body. I could have struck her, so cruel was her betrayal. Her disrespect of my instructions had so unmanned me that my muscles screamed for her punishment. A swift strike, followed by capitulation and apology. Yet as I gazed into her eyes, I relented. She looked so innocent and beautiful. I couldn’t bring myself to mar that delicacy. Instead, I soothed my mind to stillness, and explained.
A vase shattered against the wall above my right shoulder, and I felt a few shards bounce harmlessly against my back as they fell to the ground. He had not aimed a strike against me. Nevertheless, as he raged with abandon, whole and less-whole items inevitably flew in my direction. His shouts of “treachery” and “deceit” echoed around the chamber, and I gathered, through the din that my absence had been noted, and was not appreciated. Somewhere in my mind, amid loud noises, I did note a certain dry amusement at his disproportionate response to an objectively minor infraction, which would have been more pronounced if I did not periodically need to dodge pieces of furniture. Eventually, the destruction ceased, as our anteroom’s décor grew scarce. Yet he then turned his attention to me, and I would gladly have handed him another plate to shatter if he would but look elsewhere.
I didn’t tie her up, of course. That would have been monstrous. Still, she had proven her duplicity, and needed to learn obedience. So, I had a craftsman make me a fine golden chain to keep her attached to our bedpost. She could move freely throughout our home, but it prevented her from leaving. She didn’t understand, of course: became cold and distant in my presence and hasn’t laughed in weeks. It’s incredible how emotional women can be. It must be innate, for she hasn’t had any women to learn it from. Still, her bitterness is unsatisfying to me. When we lie together she is indifferent and unresponsive, even callous. If I thought she’d improve, return to her girlish vivacity, it would be one thing. But she seems robbed of her spirit, her innocence. In the last few weeks, she has even begun to age. Fine lines appear next to her eyes and mouth. What devilry it must have taken to blemish such a gift from the Gods themselves. I still sacrifice to Aphrodite, though. She understands me and what I deserve. This time, I’m certain there will be no mistakes.
I’ve noticed Pyg (I call him Pyg now. He fucking hates it) spending a lot of time in his studio recently. He hardly ever leaves his new project, and I’m quite certain he sleeps curled up next to it. Sometimes I walk in and find him just wrapped around the hunk of marble, softly crooning. Better it than me. Of course he considers his chain secure. What kind of flimsy woman could lift a bed that he built with his own two hands, and slip the chain off the bedpost? I wonder when he’ll notice that I’m gone. A day? A week? Will he come after me; never resting until he returns what is ‘rightfully his?’ Or will he forget me, descend into some new dream and occasionally, innocently, think of ‘the one that got away?’