A Cup of Normal Read Free Page B

never seen anyone even half as graceful and,” he paused, searched the ceiling. I studied his profile and liked what I saw. Strong chin and hooked nose, and wide forehead lined with thoughts I could not see.
    “Mysterious. Mystical.”
    I averted my eyes. Close, Hero. Mythical.
    He leaned forward, his hand sliding across the back of the couch to cup my shoulder. Heat spread against my skin and I closed my eyes at the sudden pleasure of it. It had been hundreds of years since anyone had touched me.
    Warm breath brushed my cheek. I parted my lips, wanting to fall into his warmth, wanting Jason around me, inside me, the sharp wine taste of him like a sun against the storm. But he was a hero and no matter how much I denied it, I was still a monster.
    Somehow, I turned my head, away from his heat, away from his touch. “It’s late, Jason,” I said in a voice far too calm for the emotions rushing through me.
    He sat back, his mouth turned down in a thin line. “So it is.” He stared at my profile for a moment, studying me. Then he ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath.
    “Dusi, I’m going back to San Francisco tomorrow. I bought several of your pieces from Jenny and want to be there when they are picked up. The gallery will probably have an unveiling of our newest discovery. You should come with me.”
    “No.”
    Silence, except for the rain falling against the night.
    It was the first time I had ever refused a hero. I liked it, and yet something inside me hurt.
    “In case you change your mind, the phone number and everything else are on your copy of the contract.” There was something behind his words that didn’t belong in a hero’s voice. Could it be sorrow? For a monster?
    “I won’t change my mind,” I said. Because I can’t. Too many people, too many chances to lose what I was finally gaining after thousands of years of wanting it — a chance to make my own choice, my own deals. A chance for respect.
    He rose. “Well. Thank you, Dusi,” he walked to the door.
    “For what?”
    “Opening your door to a stranger.” He smiled and stepped out into the dark rain.
    Ah, Perseus, why did you have to change me so? But it was not Perseus I saw in my mind. It was Jason.

    Winter in Seattle isn’t beautiful, it’s just wet. I had enough money to buy new books, go out to a few movies and, with my sunglasses on, I even tried eating at a restaurant once.
    Independence.
    In my mind’s eye I still stood on the cliffs of my past, but I no longer ached for an extinct world, being happy — happier, in the one in which I now existed.
    But at night, a small part of me waited for the ship to sail around the cove, bringing a man whose smile had touched my heart.
    When spring came, I threw myself into my work. Jason sent letters. I was the rage in San Francisco and the demand for my works were high.
    Respect.
    Not bad for a monster.
    I wrote him back. Just business at first, and then the letters became more personal. I didn’t tell him my secret, but I did mention my childhood in Greece and my brief love affair. He wrote poetry, which was not bad, and told me he had visited Greece and loved it and that he missed the moody skies of Seattle. I sent him a dozen roses on his birthday and ended up talking on the telephone with him for four hours. He was a nice man, I decided, even if he was a hero.

    Spring brought days full of buzzing bees, little animals and plenty of statue material. I sat just inside my back door, tiny stone bees scattered on the carpet beside me. I held my hand out, coaxing a squirrel in from the backyard. My dark glasses lay at my side as I waited for the squirrel to stand the way I wanted it to before I gave it the eye.
    The front door opened. I turned and looked across the hallway —
    — into Jason’s eyes.
    They were blue, with green, not gray, and rimmed with long, dark lashes.
    I turned my head, unable to watch the change, unable to see him die. The squirrel jumped away and I