I blame Aphrodite. She’s even more shallow and self-centered than my husband.
When I was a block of marble, I didn’t have headaches like this. But I didn’t have ethos either. Before Pygmalion carved me, I had only being. And with each chip of his chisel, I was becoming. My form was intended to pay homage to Aphrodite’s own. Once I was polished to perfection, he gave me my name and, in a phase I now know to be sad and strange, he stared at me day over night over day. For countless hours, he spoke to me and dressed me, twined laurel wreaths and poured wine for two. I don't remember these things myself, only a sense of waiting. It’s as if I was awakened from a dream and upon daylight all details of my reverie had fallen away.
What I have learned about my creation (as much from poets as my husband) is this… Pygmalion sacrificed the best bull of his herd for the festival of Aphrodite, and he beseeched her to bring me to life. Being curious and flattered, she came herself to see his marble tribute. Finding her own image in his sketches and maquettes, and her flawless beauty manifest in me, she granted his request.
His hands were rough from his trade. I warmed under his touch that day, each of my curves transforming from stone to skin.
Once woken, I felt a rush of gratitude to my sculptor. It wasn’t ardor, it wasn’t even affection, at least not for me. But I threw my arms around him and kissed him anyway.
Our relationship thus began unlike any other in Cyprus. Pygmalion, having carved me himself, seemed to know me so well. And me, having just become human, not knowing what I was getting myself into at all. Even so, he was an imperfect creator of a perfect creation, or at least that’s what he told me then. It’s different now.
Back then I had tried to learn to do things as humans do. I felt I should be grateful, that I should try to please. Pygmalion was so happy just to be with me, so charmed by my curiosity, and so patient. We’d spend afternoons lazy on the golden sands of Fig-Tree Bay, sharing a cask of wine and toasting the Olympians. We’d fish in the bay’s impeccable blue shallows and, once our bellies were full, we’d rest by the fire and read epically terrible verse. He was attentive then and kind. So we married. In fact, we were married by Aphrodite herself.
Our wedding celebration was fantastic. We danced with abandon and, along with our guests, gorged ourselves on ouzo, walnut and honey cakes, and every animal you could possibly turn on a spit. Soon after we returned from our honeymoon, Pygmalion got back to work in his studio. And I tried to master domestic duties and the banter of married life.
“Well, you’ve gotten curvier,” Pygmalion said one night over dinner.
“Thanks,” I'd smiled. Since awakening, I’d found food to be one of the most satisfying human benefits.
“It’s not a compliment.” He put one thin slice of roast lamb on my plate and three thick cuts on his own.
Days later, the new statue was complete. She was just like me, and in being so just like Aphrodite too, except slimmer through the hips than either of us. Pygmalion made an offering to his favorite goddess, asked her to bring the statue to life, and she did. He named her Calida. And the three of us got along all right, I suppose. It was nice to have a little help in the kitchen.
Pygmalion was still in his studio much of the time, which provided me some respite from the awkward arrangement. But he would haul such heavy blocks of stone that his shoulders would stiffen and ache. Despite my best efforts to massage his back, and Calida’s as well, he would not find comfort. So, he chiseled Jacintha next. She was just like us, except she had seven fingers on each hand. And this seemed to make him happy… for a little while.
More of us at home meant more wine and food needed; more requests of the goddess meant more bulls to sacrifice. All of this added up to more hours of him sculpting — both artwork to sell and women to meet his constantly evolving definition of perfection.
There was Pericalya, who had two breasts on her back, with whom he liked to dance. Then there was Adara, who had a flattened head for the better of carrying casks of water and wine. Next, if I remember the order correctly, was Opaline, who was like us but for having no nostrils, as we others had begun to complain of the smell of marbledust and sweat. And the most recent addition, Kallista, was formed with the smallest possible mouth, unable to speak, as he was tired of hearing our complaints in general.
Aphrodite gave life to them all — us all — like earthly dolls for her wicked humor. And Pygmalion sculpted us for this open marriage, naming each one of us “most beautiful.” Well, I’ve had enough of his stinking egotism and entitlement. Women are we, as constant as we are various. And something must be done before he sculpts another.
I’m not proud about this, but I need your help. I am marble-hearted and I won’t prove merciful.
Please, Medusa, go see my husband. Go talk to him. Look him straight in the eye and give him an equal kiss.
Listen to "An Equal Kiss" on The Story Coterie podcast.