Atlas

"Atticus, that you?" I called out, not bothering to turn around from my spot at the pottery wheel. It's not like it would make much of a difference anyways.

"I- uh-" A different voice replied. Even though they barely said anything, I new it wasn't Atticus. I'd heard Atticus sell my work for years, and before everything happened, I got to see him in action myself. I knew his voice all too well.

"I'm sorry, this studio isn't open to walk ins," I called out to whoever must've wandered in here. Nyra had the tendency to never shut the door, but even at that, I couldn't remember the last time I had to shoo someone out. Barely anyone knew this place existed, and the people who cycled through mostly kept to themselves.

"Oh- uh, that's not why I'm here- or I guess it is?" The voice replied. He had this deep rigid way to how he spoke, like he had just woken up. Maybe on the wrong side of the bed. "Are you Atlas?" He asked me.

I still kept my body forward, focused on the vase I was creating. "Who's asking?" I countered.

"Listen, it's either you are or you aren't. I just went to like ten other fucking studios trying to find this guy, with a headache the size of Texas, so I'd really prefer it if you'd just answer this one stupid question." The stranger replied with more annoyance in his low-pitched voice.

That made my eyebrows raise a little. Who the hell was this guy, and who did he think he was talking to?

"Once again, who's asking?" I asked, feeling the softness of the clay mold between my fingers as I kneaded out the air bubbles.

"You wouldn't even know who I am, we've never met-"

"Then what I said at the very beginning of this conversation still stands. This studio is not open to walk ins, please leave." I cut the stranger off with my own growing annoyance. Sometimes customers had a hard time taking no for an answer, but it had been some years since I dealt with a fan this persistent.

I wished Nyra was here to see exactly why I wanted to move to an even smaller studio in the first place.

I heard the man take a few more steps inside the studio. The sound of his feet as they hit the cement was profound. The guy sounded massive. It wasn't like I was Daredevil or anything though, for all I knew this guy could've been five foot six with some heavy ass feet.

For someone in my position, fear was always on the forefront of my emotions. I tried to never let it control me, but my world was constantly consumed by darkness... it was challenging not to fear the things I couldn't see.

"This isn't-" the man paused a moment. "Listen if you're not Atlas, I'll gladly waltz right on out the way I came. I'm just trying to buy an art piece, and if you're him, you'd think a struggling artist like yourself would want the cash."

Those words made me fuck up on my art piece completely. I hadn't wanted to react, but my anger got the best of me. I couldn't see it, yet I could feel the disproportion of the vase now, as I worked hard to fix it with my fingers.

There were more steps he took towards me, that put me on edge. I knew where both my cutting tool and score knife was, in case I needed to react fast, but there was really only so much I could do. "And why the fuck won't you even look at me-"

I could hear and feel him in front of me now. That pause he took was too familiar, it was the pause most people took when they saw my eyes... but the silence that lingered between the both of us was much longer than anything I was used to.

Finally I couldn't take it any longer, and spoke. "That's because I can't see you."

It was probably something I would've said to Nyra or Atticus when they slipped up with remembering my blindness, not a random person who was just now having this epiphany, but the guy was a jackass to begin with so I didn't really care.

"I- yeah- I'm sorry, I didn't-" he was tripping over his words now, unsure of how to continue.

All I wanted to do was continue working, so I told him the same thing again like I was a broken fucking record. "My studio isn't open to walk ins. Please show yourself out."

"R-Right, and like I get that, but this is different- I'm uh, I'm Errol Ballantine, you must've heard of me. The famed pianist from-"

"Ballantine?" I asked suddenly, removing my hands from the piece of clay I was molding up, and slowing the spin of the wheel with my foot pedal. That name had almost stopped my heartbeat completely.

"Yes, and please, I don't want to make it a big deal. I know it's kind of crazy having Errol Ballantine show up at your studio like this but-"

"Shut up." I sort of snapped on this stranger. His immediate rambling was clouding the memory I was trying to recall, a memory that still had some color to it.

Those memories were the hardest to bring to the surface these days.

I remembered Lia mentioning something about her son. Errol. When was it, I thought to myself. It must've been years. She had shown me a picture once, but everything had long since started to fade.

"Don't tell me to shut up-" the stranger started to say, yet he didn't finish his sentence. Instead, I could feel his eyes on me as my clay smeared fingers went up to massage the base of my temples.

There were memories here, I told myself. Memories I just needed to remember.

All I could see was a faded picture, one of a dark haired green eyed young man. Back then he must've still been in college, but who knows how many years had passed since then. I tried hard to remember the whole memory with Lia, but no other images were coming to mind.

"You're Lia's boy?" I asked him.

"Son," he quickly corrected. "I'm almost twenty seven now."

Boy. Son. It was the same fucking thing in my eyes.

"I- I just haven't heard that name in a while." I finally settled on.

And I hadn't.

The last card I received from Lia was a little over a year and a half ago. I thought she may have moved out of state, or been fed up with my mopey attitude towards creating. I couldn't of imagined she'd send her son to find me.

She was too direct a person for that.

"What are you doing here?" I finally asked, shifting my head up in his general direction.

"I uhm, her uh-" he cleared his throat. "Her death anniversary is coming up alongside my fathers birthday, and I wanted to get him something special... to sort of commemorate that I guess."

"Their anniversary isn't for another six months," I replied too hastily, not fully registering what this stranger had said.

There was another pause between us, long enough for both of us to understand what the other said and heard.

"It's her death-" Errol started.

"Oh-" I replied at the same exact time.

I set my arms at my side, surely dirtying up my overalls even further. There was a part to my brain that just sorta switched off. Whatever it usually did must've failed, because I could feel the familiar stinging sensations of my eyes like I was about to cry.

"Could you please leave?" I asked the stranger across from me. This was more desperate a request than any of the others I had given him earlier.

"I would, I just- there's something that I-"

"Please." I spoke again, looking up in the direction I had heard the voice from. My vision no longer clouded when tears welled up, but I could feel them on the very edge of my lid. Regardless of who this man was, I couldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I couldn't even confirm for myself that he really was who he said he was, or what he said was true.

The man said nothing else as I heard him get up. His footsteps moved slowly, making his way to the door behind me. "I'm going to write my number on this scrap piece of paper on the desk near the door." His voice broke through the silence suddenly. "Please call me if you-" that's when he stopped to pause a moment. "Just please call me."

That was the last thing I heard before the stranger saw himself out, and shut my studio door behind him. It was just in the nick of time before tears started to fall. I could feel them warm against my cheek, and I tried to wipe them away without getting clay all over my face.

I just sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do or what to think. Of course there was a very valid suspicion that this man might not even be Lia's son, I'd met some pretty weird buyers in the past, but then there was the question of why. Why would someone even go through all the trouble just to get an art piece out of me? No one really knew of Lia and I's friendship besides her husband, and I had worked hard to make myself disappear since.

Could this really be her son? I asked myself. And could she really be gone?

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