When the knock came at her door, she was almost too nervous to answer it. She! Nervous! The notion was embarrassing, and yet Kate couldn't help it. She had an acute sense that this was it: this was the end of it.

"Come in!" she called from her bedroom, where she was re-applying eyeliner in spite of herself. She couldn't help her need to appear put together, to be desirable, even when she knew it would do her little good. She'd been afraid of this happening for some time—almost since she'd begun the affair. He was never emotionally with her, whether they were having sex or she was advising his artistic productions. His heart was never in any of their moments spent together, and Kate realized, too, that the fact that she cared about his lack of interest would be her downfall. She'd never cared in the past. Not with anyone. But Oscar's reticent refusal to be appreciative of all she was doing for him . . . it was beginning to split her nerves.

"Kate?" his voice came from the front of the condo.

"In here!"

She heard his footsteps. Oscar always walked slowly but his steps were loud. There was an easiness in his gait, and yet he never seemed mellow enough to fit it.

Within the seconds before he poked his head around the doorframe, she plumped her hair and draped her robe a bit more dramatically over her vanity stool. A brief memory of being a little girl, watching her mother clasp a necklace at her own vanity, flashed into her thoughts, but then his golden-curled head and painfully handsome face were peeking in at her. She pretended not to notice him even though he was reflected in the mirror she faced.

"I—I want to talk to you . . . if that's all right."

Inside, she sighed a heavy sigh. Why was he always asking her permission as if they were still in a classroom? She turned to him and waved toward the bed. "Come in. Don't just stand there."

He didn't move. They stared at one another for a moment. Then, to her annoyance, he said, "I think we'd better talk somewhere else. Can you come out?"

Kate felt something crumble inside her, as if little rocks were rolling down a volcano. A controlled anger boiled in her gut. She was a middle-aged woman, for God's sake; she didn't deserve to be treated this way by some stupid, juvenile boy, no matter how beautiful he was! Oh God, she hadn't been able to tame this one. She'd failed miserably, and this encounter was clearly a sign that she was losing her ability to make a thing her own. He was slapping her in the face by being here, by asking her to leave her own God-damned bedroom for a talk. How dare he treat her this way! She was a grown woman! An alluring, powerful one at that—and he talked to her as if she was a child? As if she was some little silly twenty-something girl, a child, practically, like him?

"I'll be out in a minute," was all she could muster up.

He left, and she purposely took her time in dressing. She was embarrassed; she'd made a point to be undressed when he arrived—so stupid of her when she knew it would make no difference. She'd hoped . . . but no. Not Oscar. He didn't care about anyone but himself!

Kate left her room angry, dreading going out to meet him, considering momentarily just yelling out the door for him to leave and hoping that he would. But she had to face him. She couldn't help herself. This was her destruction, and she knew it, but she was going to walk right into it. Nobody had ever made her feel this way—nobody. Like she was . . . like she was old!

Oscar was sitting in the chair when she walked as casually as she could into the living room. He wasn't on the sofa; he was on the chair. Which could only indicate that he didn't want to be near her.

Kate's chest constricted. She wondered if it was possible to have a heart attack at will. That would make him sorry for what he was about to do. Of course, it would also reinforce the painful fact that she was getting old.

"Hi," he said, and he took the palm of his hand and rolled his hair back across his head and away from his lovely, perfect face. It fell right back anyhow.

Kate said nothing. If he hadn't been so beautiful, this wouldn't be so hard to stomach.

Clearly, he felt awkward. He stood up, because she wouldn't sit down, and appeared to be waiting for her to say something. She wouldn't, though, and he was forced to go on. Sighing like this was the moment of truth, he just came out with it. "Listen, Dr. Chilton—" (that stung) "I just came to tell you that . . . that as much as I, I appreciate what you've done, as far as helping me get work and promoting me and everything—as much as I'm grateful I just . . . I can't . . ." He nodded in resolve. "I just can't see you anymore, and I think I'm going to try to make it on my own, now."

She just stared at him, blankly. She'd known it was coming. She wasn't surprised, but it still hurt, and she refused to make him feel ok for hurting her. With crossed arms, she kept an expressionless face and said not a word.

The seconds passed. Oscar appeared very uncomfortable. "So . . . this is it, then? You aren't going to say anything at all? I'm sorry that I have to be so blunt, but I don't know how else to talk to you. You've been very kind to me, with the opportunities you've provided; it's just that I can't keep working on pieces I don't love. All my time is spent in building these sculptures I don't enjoy or feel proud of, and it's—it's killing me. I just want to sort of . . . take a break from it all. I want to do my own thing for a little while, and if I keep working for you, I won't be able to do that. So, I hope you aren't upset with the way things have turned out, and . . . and I'm sure you'll be able to find someone else that can help you."

Licking her lips, Kate laughed a little, then shrugged. She was good at feigning indifference. She picked up a pillow off the sofa, fluffed it, and said as she was sitting down, "Are you done?"

Oscar looked quizzically at her. "Am I—am I done? Well, yes. I am."

Kate smiled condescendingly. She knew this was her last chance. If she could make him feel foolish now, she just might win. She patted the sofa next to her, saying, "Come on, Oscar. Sit down. Let's not be dramatic."

She watched him as he visibly struggled with what to do. "I don't think I should—"

"Oh come on!" she blurted, almost too obvious. She patted the seat again. "You don't need to be afraid of me. I'm just a human being, Oscar, and I'd like to think that at the level we've become acquainted, you don't think me that unapproachable."

Again, his face distorted itself as he seemed to battle with his options. At length, however, he sat down next to her.

Kate thrilled. Heat rushed through her. She almost had him, now! Oh, she'd show him how childishly he was behaving. He'd been a tough one to win over, but he'd be the most rewarding when she had him!

"Now, let's talk like adults, not children. Oscar, you have such noble passions when it comes to your art. They're commendable, I think, but in reality, they're also childish. It's only natural to want to do things your way, but only after you've worked your way up can you even begin to live your life the way you want to. That's what I'm trying to make you understand, dear." She stroked his hand almost as a mother would, yet she slowly added pressure and then moved so stealthily from his hand to his knee that he hardly realized what had happened. "You may not like the work right now, but I promise that it's all an investment in your future. If you can just stick with it for a little while, I promise I can set you up as one of the most prominent contemporary artists in the city! And from there, who knows what will happen." Her hand was dangerous in its motions, but her mellifluous voice kept him from focusing too much on it. "You'll be able to live your life the way you want to! If you quit now, you'll be giving up a promising future. I know you're afraid that you're sacrificing your ideals and all that nonsense, but in truth, you're just too young to understand that no one who wants success can keep ideals in this world. You say you appreciate what I've done for you, but clearly, you haven't, dear, or you wouldn't be treating me as if I was disposable."

She watched him as her words took effect. He was quiet, thinking, but beginning to breathe heavier as well. This was why he had not wanted to be near her, she knew, but she'd drawn him in. She had only to wait a few more moments before leading him back into the bedroom he'd initially been too fearful (for good reason) to enter.

Gleefully, almost with the joy a schoolgirl feels from first holding hands with a boy, Kate wondered if maybe she wasn't finished, after all. Pleased with her accomplishment, she spoke her heart's desire and added, "You need me, Oscar. You can't get along without me."

That had been too much. He suddenly caught her hands and held them. Recognition ignited his dark brown eyes, now, replacing the hazy stupor he'd momentarily lapsed into. She felt afraid. "You're wrong. I don't need you."

His eyes locked on hers. Kate saw in his face not cruelty or anger, as she'd expected when he finally left her, but a kind of pity, almost. And she realized he felt . . . he felt sorry for her. This realization was akin to standing at the edge of a big hole, and she wasn't sure whether she was about to fall into it or keep steady on its brink. She couldn't leap over it; she knew that. The void was there. It wasn't going anywhere, and it was too massive to skirt or jump over. The thing had grown like some virulent sore, slowly eating away at her flesh and her fury and augmenting her fear. She'd known this was coming—knew after embarking on one last seduction that he would be her last. Shame at her attempt to keep him wrapped its bony fingers around her heart and squeezed until the organ leaked humiliation. Her face burned. She wanted to vomit. Or curl up into herself. Or kick him very hard, or tear out her eyes, or a hundred other things balled up into one hideous, repugnant, urgent sensation. What had just transpired? Had she truly been possessed of the idea she could still be her old self—the self she'd thought she had been for years but only now realized she'd not been? The humiliation of a rebuff! She'd so seldom felt it, not because she didn't deserve it—in all likelihood the men she'd been with had only been with her for the publicity or a good review—and even though she'd anticipated Oscar's desertion, she'd not intended on attempting to convince him to stay, making herself visibly pathetic. What had overcome her and caused her to do it?

"I'm not trying to hurt you," he said, and the sincerity in his voice infuriated her."

Snapping her hands out of his, Kate snarled, "Stop it!" Just . . . just stop!" Like a child might, she put her hands over her ears. "Just stop talking!"

"Kate, please." Oscar waited for her to regain a little composure before continuing. "I don't think you're a bad person. I understand you completely."

"No, you can't possibly understand me."

"Why? Do you think you're so different from me?"

She was astounded that he was trying to make her feel better, after all she'd done, but she would not allow his words to overcome her self-defensive bitterness. She stared straightforward, at nothing. Her eyes glazed and pinked, watered as if exposed to excessive chlorine.

"You know that what we've been doing is wrong, just like I know. I'm not even sure that's the right word—wrong. I don't really mean it in some moral sense—it's deeper than that; it's as if we're betraying ourselves, the very stuff that makes us. We don't have any real bond, and you know that. We aren't in love or anything even close to it. We just used each other, which is nothing new, as far as people go. We all use each other. I don't see how any relationship isn't about benefits. Someone gets sex or money or a job out of the other. Or maybe it's the joy of having a friend or the good feeling of helping someone. We're all selfish, really, but it's not our faults. If we weren't so stuck inside ourselves, we'd maybe be motivated by something other than what our brains tell us. I'm selfish, Kate. I fully admit to it. I want to make what I want to make. I can't stand building these crap pieces for other people. It doesn't make me happy, even if it makes you or them happy. So see? I'm selfish. I won't keep on doing it. I can't. I'll kill myself if I don't get back into my real art. I know that you have your own reasons for wanting me to stick around, and maybe some really do have my best interests in mind, but I'm too selfish to listen to them. We're both of us egotists. We aren't so different after all. We're just looking out for ourselves, and sometimes we end up using others to do it, but really, Kate, we've just been using up ourselves."

Oscar waited a few decades-long moments, probably expecting her to say something, but Kate continued to stare into space, the heat of humiliation leaving her and replacing itself with a dizzy uncertainty.

After a bit, he said, "Well, I guess I'll leave you alone, then." He rose, moved a few steps toward the door, paused, hesitated, and added, "Think of me once in a while, Kate. You may be the only one that does, and . . . I guess I'm being selfish in wanting you to do it, but I can't help it."

Kate listened to his footsteps as he crossed the floor and moved down the hall. The door unlocked, opened, and closed, its echo seeming to reverberate in her bones, shake her to her core. She did not have the strength or the will to get up for nearly half an hour, until the sun had begun to sink and her condo was darkening with the approach of night. She was unable to turn on any lights. The last thing in the world she wanted was to see herself in a mirror. Stumbling into her room, exhausted, she stared at her king-size bed, at the dresser with all its make-ups and perfumes, at her walk-in closet, at the doorway leading to her master bath; she stared at it, but she didn't really see any of it. A film had crossed her eyes, obscuring everything she'd thought she liked, was proud to have earned.

Stripping down to her underwear, Kate climbed into and lay in bed, totally drained of energy, truly feeling her age. She stared into the dimness of her room, cold yet too dazed and tired to get under the covers. This was it, Kate knew. The void. This was where she had feared she'd end up, and she'd known it was coming for some while, now. Oscar had little more to do with it than being the first domino in miles of domino trails to fall; Kate had been building her lifestyle on the precarious sentiment that she held any power over others; though she'd known very deep within herself that her sense of control was fragile at best, she'd been able to convince herself of her persona for years. But the night sweats had awakened the real Kate, the unhappy woman in her forties, who felt young enough to deserve joy and yet ashamed of herself for behaving so immaturely in attempt to get it. Where did she fit into this world? She had no idea anymore. She'd thought she wanted a career that gave her the ability to treat others as chess pieces, she being the queen and most powerful, of course, able to check any move she deemed too bold or move in ways to cause others to feel falsely emboldened. And she had that career, now. She had one of the highest positions in her line of work; the artistic community turned to her for acceptance or the dreaded criticism; one word from her could revive an artist out of style, uplift an unknown name, or destroy another's livelihood. She had thoroughly enjoyed her clout, but with each passing year, she became more an object of criticism herself. Within a decade—maybe even five years—Kate Chilton would lose her power and be overcome by fresh talent, contemporary voices and works, the opinions of youth—which she no longer possessed and was slipping further away from each moment.

Some crushing force moved its way up through Kate's abdomen to her chest, behind her ribs, around her heart, up into her throat. There was nothing. Nothing at all. The utter emptiness she'd been able to keep at bay now all but consumed her. There was nothing but this black hole in front of her. Nothing to do but suffer the feeling of each domino falling, until the very last toppled—and then where would she be?