Sunday Stories: “The Bronzes”


The Bronzes
by William Hawkins

The bronzes were her idea. Or, maybe his. She can’t remember. It came up early in the morning, when they were still bodies, warm and unobserved inside the bedsheets, and the quiet sounds of waking had turned—too quickly—to talk, talk of the day, as in, what are we going to do today? And just like that they were people again. She hates being people. Because being people requires people to see you being people. So they agreed on the Getty. The new exhibit, The Bronzes. But which of them brought it up? She needs to remember because if she brought it up—if it was her idea—that means, at the end of this, he’ll be the one to praise her for it. Or blame her for it. But, however it goes, he will be the judge. Unless it was his idea. And if it was his idea, then she has the power of praise or blame, and if that’s so then she must decide which it will be—she must articulate these recovered bodies. Judgement is the price of being seen.

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