|Copyright Claire Fuller|
“How long are you going to stare at it?” Clarence's wife said as she passed his office.
“Until it talks to me.” He never waited this long to understand a sculpture. It was his work. This one had to have a meaning.
“What if it never does?” He didn’t want to think of that. He didn’t want to envision the rest of his life, waiting to understand the meaning of one person’s work.
The secret had to be in the one splash of ink. The almost hastily scribbled heart, the second face. It was in there. It had to be.