I close my eyes as I feel the cold steel against my throat. The edge bites into my skin. A little more pressure, and a sudden jerk, and it'll be done. I'll be ready to paint my very last portrait.
 
One more motion and it's all over.
 
Then why have I been standing here for the past fifteen minutes, waiting?
 
Just one sudden jerk of the head, and I can begin my final work. My magnum opus. My literal life's work. . .
 
I am interrupted by the tinny sound of my cell phone playing "Brucia la Luna."
 
I should let it go.
 
I don't.
 
I step away from the pillar and go to my cell phone where it lies on the hardwood floor, turning on the speakerphone. "Hello?"
 
"Hi, is this Rin Tezuka?" a strange male voice asks.
 
"Yes, this is. Who is it?" I whisper, in a harsh voice.
 
"Oh, I'm sorry. I guess you've forgotten me. It's Hisao Nakai. I went to high school with you back in the day. I'm Emi's boyfriend?"
 
"Oh yes," I say, trying to keep a false note of happiness in my voice. "The one with the problem in the pants."
 
The voice laughs at me. "Yeah, that's me. I helped you out with your murals. Anyway, I was just reading the newspaper and found out about your new art exhibition. You must be incredibly proud."
 
"It's. . . all right," I say, fighting down the loneliness. "It's a great accomplishment for one so young."
 
"Yeah, I guess," Hisao says. "They had some of your paintings in the article. They look really good. But. . . I was just wondering something. Are you all right?"
 
". . . Of course I'm all right," I insist. "Why wouldn't I be?"
 
"It's just that. . . your paintings look different from the ones I remember back in high school," Hisao says. "There's a lot more. . . loneliness in them, I guess?"
 
Shock.
 
"What makes you think that?" I ask.
 
"Well. . . I don't know. There was that one that was all black, except for the white sunburst, and one lonely figure standing in the center. And you used to have a lot of body parts, but they used to be all spread out, not all pushing in towards the center, where there's one eye. . ." He laughs. "I guess I'm reading too much into it, huh? I'm not an art critic. I don't know the first thing about art, after all."
 
I sit down hard on the floor.
 
He knows.
 
He heard me.
 
Someone out there heard my cry.
 
"Anyway," Hisao says. "I was just thinking I'd give you a call. Sorry for being such a nosy guy. I guess I was reading too much into it. You sound happy."
 
"I do," I say. It's not a question or an affirmation. Just a flat statement.
 
"Well, I won't take up too much of your time. I guess you've got work to do. I suppose an artist's life is always busy. Looking forward to seeing you again soon. Emi and I have a surprise to share with you. She's really excited about it: she said that you're the first person we need to tell."
 
He sounds giddy. Happy. Alive.
 
More alive than me.
 
"All right," I say. "I'll see you then."
 
Hisao hangs up the phone. I sit there for a long time staring at it.
 
I lean my head back and look up at the knife taped to the pillar. It's still there. Still shining like a tooth of a wolf.
 
The wolf is stalking me. It will stalk me forever. It will always be there inside my skin, behind my eyes.
 
But sometimes, I guess, there are people who will help me keep the wolves away.
 
I take the knife down from the pillar. I hold it between my toes and slash it down the fatal canvas, going from corner to corner, slashing a giant X through the paint and the cloth.
 
I'm still lonely. I'm still tired. But I'm no longer a voice screaming into the darkness, waiting not to be heard.
 
Someone is listening.
 
For now, maybe that's enough.