A Little Magic
“Turned off time. Conal would have bristled at the idea that they were making a kind of magic, but for Allena there was no other word for it.
She posed for him again, in the studio where the afternoon sun slanted through the windows. And she watched herself be born in clay.
Because she asked, he told her of his years in Dublin. His studies and his work. The lean student years when he’d lived on tinned food and art. Then the recognition that had come, like a miracle, in a dingy gallery.
The first sale had given him the luxury of time, room to work without the constant worry of paying the rent. And the sales that followed had given him the luxury of choice, so that he’d been able to afford a studio of his own.
Still, though he spoke of it easily, she noticed that when he talked of Dublin, he didn’t refer to it as home. But she said nothing.
Later, when he’d covered the clay with a damp cloth and washed in the little sink, they went for a walk along the shore.
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