Jennifer Canbury-Lloyd

Galatea cleaves herself from Pygmalion’s mould and sighs.

Her hair is darkening at the roots, but she feels younger, freer. Jenny Lewis hums, and casts her eyes around the studio in search of fresh inspiration. They settle on the forest outside the window, foliage wrapping around this place, their little retreat. The between-world.

The wood slices supple beneath her fingers, just as Flo has taught her. It practically sings with memory as the whorls and tangles morph into a familiar scene.

It’s Anchor Rock, carved in relief. A panel as tall as her and then some, the town stylised in miniature amidst a cradle of stars. The galaxy swirling anew.

Features emerge as she coaxes them from fading recollection – the rock itself, settled at the centre. The bar where she’d found friends and lost a husband. The quarry, the forest trails, the campfire where she’d shrugged off her name like fallen leaves.

And the train station. The platform where she’d lain under a canopy of stars, and reached into the dark for a second chance.

“You make me feel alive again.”

The train, steam swirling with carefully-carved hope. Of compromise.

Tinier details still. A row of boots near Flo's cabin. Distant city lights. A bottle of wine outside the bar, gathering dust.

She stretches for another tool and the ladder wobbles. So does Jenny – years of stilettos, her ankles aren’t what they were.

Someone steadies her, leans into her side like a puzzle piece.

“I brought you tea.”

Flo smiles as she sets down the mug. Onto a scrap of paper on the desk – Robert's latest wedding invite, reborn as a coaster.

They remain entangled as they listen to the giggles from the next room. Christine teaching Madeline to act, Sebastian teasing them both. Some play of star-crossed lovers, she gathers, of an eleventh hour epiphany. Their emotional monologues keep splitting into laughter.

Felicity is the only absence. She took it hardest, in the beginning. It was difficult for a while – still is, but they’re learning.

She's an athlete now, travels the world. Wanderlust is in their blood.

Jenny Lewis remembers her own rucksack at 17, and loves her daughter all the more.

Flo senses her contemplation and cranes to press a kiss to her palm. He smells of pine and woodsmoke, honey and lavender. Home.

There’s a streak of paint on Flo’s cheekbone, and she grins.

Their house is full of colour. Oil pastel smudges, tapestries, hanging lamps of stars. The walls a tangle of artwork – gifts from her clients over the years, mixed with her own. Awards for NKRR, for opening this studio, with community woven between its timbers.

And more photos than she can count. Years tracing all their faces. Holly, Priscilla, Odette. Jennifer fading in the sunlight. Old frames warping, figures bursting from within. A mould breaking. Jenny reaching for her wife.

As Flo passes the toolbox, they give a final glance to Robert’s invite. Pygmalion, crumbled to dust.

Galatea takes up the chisel herself.

By Rose G.