The Temple

by Emily Shore

  There’s something so wrong about him… but so right for the Faces of the Temple that must be preserved—never touched by an artisan.

  Bliss reveals the answer to Queran’s puzzle.

  “Queran was selected especially by our father for the Penthouse. He was born with a lower sex drive, which can happen in some men, and he was apprenticed to a Temple artisan when he was a child.”

  She smiles at him as he drapes a towel over his arm and removes the white bowls of paint from his workstation.

  “He mastered his craft even before his superior did,” Bliss says. “They called him a prodigy. And he decided to stay past his adolescence. But artisans operating on a higher level who choose a Temple career must take an oath and then undergo the operation.”

  “Operation?” I thread my hands together at my upper thighs where the silk robe Bliss has given me ends. Then, I squeeze my arms into my body.

  “Not surgical. Chemical. I shudder when I think of the brutal cutting methods people used before our medical advances. Here, they have a different method where they inject a permanent chemical implant that stunts the sex drive and lowers testosterone.”

  I rub a hand up and down my arm. “Why do they bother? Security guards even use the girls’ services.”

  “The lower-level preparers don’t have such procedures. But the relationship between girl and artisan is remarkably close in the Penthouse. An artisan remains with her for years. There must be absolute—”

  “Trust?” No, I shake my head. That doesn’t fit. Bliss doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who cares about trust.

  “Control,” she corrects. “It’s essential when you have someone touching your body every day. Where security is stationed, there are cameras, and they are also physically monitored during their guard hours, but monitors are removed after those hours are over. But on this level, artisans…require more.”

  Bliss stands, and Queran motions to the glass chamber I first noticed when we entered the preparation room. The artisan opens the door for her, and she steps inside. He closes it after her. I don’t look away when warm, golden orbs bathe her in a soft glow. That’s when I realize it’s a drying chamber so the first layer of paint may dry more effectively. It only takes a minute or two before she is finished, and he opens the door. Queran doesn’t even need to guide her. This is routine for my sister—something she’s not only practiced at but excels.

  After she sits, Queran sweeps dramatic black across Bliss’s skin until there is nothing left but the never-ending circle of white just around her eyes and from the pure ghost inside the contact lenses she wears. He even paints her eyelashes white to enhance the eye’s pure power. Final stroke is to release her hair, which he straightens before coiling it into a tight, thick bun on the top of her head. He doesn’t even need to harness any recalcitrant strands; her hair is more obedient than mine.

  She turns around to present herself. Yin. The whites of her eyes are the good in the evil. If only I could spread that white—mushroom it until it sucks up all the black of what has been done to her. If only we could find our balance inside each other just as easily as it’s painted on the outside. I must hope, no, believe it can happen.

  I start to breathe heavier because it’s my turn, and Queran gestures to the chair. Curling my hands to my throat, pressing on the skin there, I try to remember why I am doing this. The image of my mother dressed as the Unicorn seizes my blood, electrifying tiny lightning storms to burn my arteries. Exactly what my heart needs. But when I stand before the vanity—despite knowing what Queran is—or rather what he is not—my body doesn’t stop trembling. I bite my lip to suppress a gasp when he eases my hair to my back, then opens the robe straps and slides it down the curves of my shoulders. Loose enough that just after I’ve blinked, the robe has pooled to my feet. Chilly air wraps around all my skin, and I find myself shivering. Queran lights his hands on my underwear, but I need a moment. I rush to sit on the chair first, then curl my body into a ball, hands gripping my legs, digging my knees into my chest.

  This place isn’t like the Garden or Aviary where my display was safely tucked behind glass—a spectacle but not an interaction as I’m about to share with Bliss. Even if she says I will be untouchable, another man will touch me now.

  Resting my forehead on my knees, I whimper just a little.

  Maybe If Bliss and I were similar, this would be better. Maybe if she wasn’t really my Yin, I could cope. But we have nothing in common.

  Our mother. We have our mother in common.

  Queran touches me. I’d hoped Bliss would touch me first, cup my shoulder, pat my head—some outward show of consolation—but she still stands in the center of the room. Not preoccupied but not concerned either. Nor curious. Just studying me with a blank expression on her face, one that almost registers confusion. On the contrary, Queran tilts my chin up to his eyes, which are so young I could fool myself into believing they are a child’s eyes. I suppose he is beautiful in his own way with his deep-set eyes the color of blue salt—almost electric. Not like Luc’s, which are steel ships cutting through sea, but Queran’s are the most animated part of him. His dark spiced pony accents his eyes even more. Skin an unordinary shade of pale spent from so much time in these cold walls. I’m sure he sees little of the outside.

  “Shh…sweet girl.” His voice is low, caught halfway between a murmur and a whisper.

  His breath is clean, as sterile as these skyscraper walls.

  He picks up a piece of paper nearby, takes his time to arrange it into a diamond shape before folding the points in, expertly curving the inner edge to create a dipping V that becomes a paper heart. After he presses it to my nude chest, he points to the delicate center. Then, he brings it to his lips and whispers another ‘shh’ before kissing it and cupping the origami inside his hands like he’s holding a tender bundle of stardust. I receive the message. Inside is what matters. He just paints the outside, but he will care for what’s outside just as much as he cares about what’s inside.

  Finally, Queran picks up the white spray and sweeps it up and down my body. I bite my lower lip, pressing my eyes together before nodding in surrender. Then, he raises one finger, sets the sprayer down, and grabs a few of his paintbrushes. A moment later, Queran assumes all my hair and raises it above my neck, then sticks the paintbrushes in to maintain its position. I recognize it as his way of lending a small piece of himself to me. It’s enough, but—

  “I-I might still need some time,” I croak out. “In between. Um…” I stare at his puzzled expression and try to clarify, summoning the word I’m searching for. “Breaks?”

  Judging from his smile, I take it as a sign he can work with me on that. I start to lower my knees, but he touches both and motions for me to remain put. After which he sets to work on my face, applying a sealer, traveling from there to my throat, upper chest, and moving down my arms first. Then, he uses the sprayer, which paints a winter landscape on my skin. He sprinkles shimmer, dusting it everywhere paint is until I can imagine my limbs are like those crystallized tree branches one sees on an early winter morning after a light snowfall.

  Queran picks up a brush, then sweeps it toward my breast. Inhaling, I hold up a hand to signal a break. I close my eyes. Count my breaths. Inhale, exhale, inhale. Why this is so difficult? Maybe because the interaction is coming. Am I trying in vain to delay it? Or is it really because of Queran? I drag my legs up to flatten my knees against my breasts before daring myself to look him in the eye. No scorn, impatience, or even amusement at my expense. No, his expression is more pensive. Not curious but thoughtful. At first, I think I notice one eye twitch and a muscle tighten in his jaw, but it must be a trick of the lights because he clears his throat, nods, and raises one finger before walking away.

  I watch as he calmly strides to the bathroom door.

  Bliss giggles just a little from behind me. “No, Serenity, he might be a eunuch, but the urination urge is not suppressed.”

  Oh.

 
A black Yin vision, Bliss sways toward me, not one iota of her skin out of place. Her eyes are like stars in a pitch-black sky. She scoots into the chair next to me and leans to the side, expression almost bewildered.

  “Why are you insecure?”

  “I’m not,” I snap, a little too harshly. “I just…don’t like people touching me. This body is mine, and I don’t like someone else’s hands, especially another man’s—”

  “It’s just a brush.”

  “Someone’s eyes, then.”

  “But you’ve performed as the Swan and the Skeleton Flower. How could eyes possibly bother you?”

  “It makes me sick every time, wondering what they are thinking, what they feel when they look at me.”

  “Don’t let it. It doesn’t matter,” Bliss states, manner all definitions of simple. “Especially with Queran.”

  I flick my head toward her, eyes callous. “Doesn’t it matter what I feel?”

  She shakes her head. Just once. But firmly. “No, it doesn’t.”

  I don’t get the chance to ask her what she feels because Queran emerges from the bathroom. Some part of me feels more relaxed now. Amazing how such a simple, human act like the need to urinate can put me more at ease. So, I drop my knees and bare my breasts to him. What helps is how his expert hand never once touches me. No rubbing of knuckles even as he leans in to swirl extra white paint and shimmer around each of my nipples. No brushing of the base of his palm when he wisps the brush upward. His eyes harness my skin, concentrated on the winter landscape. I almost feel like one of his origami shapes. Folding Serenity over and over to create some new entity.

  Yang.

  I stare at her now with her lashes dark and mesmerizing to convey the black pearl irises, so dark I can’t even detect my pupils. Once I’m under the heated glow of lights and warm fans that arrange for the paint to dry, it’s much more comforting. Queran doesn’t look at me. Or Bliss for that matter. Queran silently goes about his tasks, cleaning up his workstation and placing things back in their proper places, but he does toss away the bowls even though they have some paint left in them. He also drops the paintbrushes into the trash bucket.

  “Queran never uses the same brush twice,” Bliss informs me. “It’s his way of showing respect.”

  Steeling my shoulders, I turn to face my sister. “What now?”

  “Now, we take the elevator to the enclosed observation deck. Our tables will be there, and then Queran, along with food preparers, will begin the next stage.”

  Bliss is so much better at this than me. Trained her entire life under our father’s parasitic care, she closes her eyes and remains perfectly still. Tree roots have grown out of her back, fusing her skin to the table. The flat surface is long enough to accommodate both our bodies, but it’s shaped like the Yin-Yang symbol. Our heads positioned just next to each other, but her body pointed in one direction and mine in the opposite. Her head is directed at the moon, but mine is lined up with the east where the rising sun never sleeps—only shifts to another part of the world. Everything is staged down to the very last detail. No room for error.

  With our combined body warmth, Queran and the others need to move more quickly to prevent the food from growing warm from the heat of our flesh. All cold sushi, of course, but I learn there will be an intermission followed by cold desserts. As the observation deck is enclosed, the environment is air conditioned to help preserve the experience. It’s too cold. I wonder if the glass windows overlooking the expansive Boroughs and beyond will frost over.

  Just as Queran places two lone Skeleton Flowers across each of my painted nipples and nothing else, I begin to chase my breath. Bliss is more covered. Sushi rolls wrapped in deep seaweed-green casings that blend in with the color of her skin decorate her breasts. Yang is more exposed than Yin. Yin is winter and secrets. Yang is summer and passion.

  Closing my eyes, I harness the image of my mother and inhale deeply. Slowly. If I can’t do this, Force will whip her. If I can’t do this, he will punish her in my place. I steel myself. My body is a dragon, my breath is its smoke. In another moment or two, I manage to slow my heartbeat so my chest doesn’t heave so much. Queran replaces the Skeleton Flowers.

  “How can you—” I start to ask Bliss, but my voice sounds raspy. Need water. My vocal chords have turned to dried lint.

  “I was born with an X chromosome,” Bliss responds, picking up on my question, her chest as even as a ripple in a pond. “From the womb, I was destined as a sexual entity. If people view me as that no matter what I do, then I may as well use it to my advantage. Experiences like this are a treat.”

  I can almost hear my father’s voice lacing her vocal chords.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Queran adds another sushi roll to the allotment around Bliss’s navel. Black and dark green casings for her, white-themed sushi items for me. Goose bumps parade on my skin as he forms delicate sushi patterns leading down to my pelvis before he assembles more Skeleton Flowers there to shroud my private area. Despite knowing what Queran is, I still can’t help my eyes drifting to his lower regions. Stiller than a broken train. No tenseness in his body, just hyper-awareness dictated by how his eyes settle upon mine just after he finishes.

  “Shh, sweet girl.”

  He touches two fingers to my lips to calm the seismic activity causing them to tremble. Then, he brushes the backs of his knuckles across my cheek, quashing a tear. Queran offers me no comforting words unlike Dove. Magnolia’s blindness was its own comfort. Lindy’s frantic, fast hands trying to keep up with her words were another. To me, the most comforting thing about Queran is his origami—his paper shapes that speak for him. I picture the way his subtle fingers work the paper into a precise fold when his cool breath sinks onto my forehead so he may kiss my brow.

  I wish the floor could become a sink hole. For a moment, I imagine the table under us turning to wispy clouds and the chrome and glass floor melting into a silver waterfall for Bliss and me to slide all the way down the Temple and out through the front doors so we can walk away and never turn back.

  “You must learn to indulge in these sorts of experiences,” Bliss says without glancing at me once. “There is more appreciation involved. They are sensual and artistic. The female form is something to be admired and celebrated. The experience of nyotaimori is far more delicate than most encounters here.”

  “It doesn’t seem delicate to me.”

  “I’ve had training. You haven’t,” she says. “That is what make us the fire and ice, the Yin and Yang of the Temple. I carry the secrets and belong to the night. You have fire and your beautiful virginity. This balance grants our clients a fuller, more meaningful fantasy. “

  That’s why Queran has enhanced my curls by tinting them with a shimmer to bring out my inner Yang.

  Suddenly, I want him back. I want him to leave me with one last paper object to get me through this. As soon as he closes the door and men begin to enter the room after him, I start to gasp again. I hadn’t expected this many. Twenty in all. They are here for a feast. And we are the vessels. They wear business suits, black. But one by one, they remove their suit coats, a few draping them over their chairs and others much less concerned when they take in the display. Our display. About half are young. In their thirties, I’d wager. Others, it’s difficult to tell. And the seniors of the group are well into their fifties. Like Force. Not one makes a move toward the food. Their eyes taste us, drift across our sensual areas, eager and ready.

  Then, our father enters. Naturally, he would enter from a higher location—a balcony that oversees the interaction. Without addressing his guests, Force places his hands on the railing and pauses to study his daughters. He nods approvingly. At last, after that moment has practically circumnavigated the globe, Force extends a hand and welcomes the men.

  “My esteemed guests, I thank you for joining me on this momentous occasion and sharing in this singular tradition. On this night, I am pleased to grant to you—my highest shareholders—the g
rand opening of the Temple Faces Interaction. As you well know…” Chuckling, he gestures to the table. “The treasures that lie before you are identical twins, but I’ll wager you can tell them apart.”

  All the men around us laugh. Considering my Swan debut earlier, of course they know who is who. Even if they were given no information prior, they know who is Yin and who is Yang. They know who the long-lost Temple daughter is. The one my father is finally unearthing and bringing to light while Bliss will always remain in the shadows, behind the scenes.

  “After all these years, your keen-sense business minds and eyes may finally savor the sight of more than one twin. My daughters. My prized possession.”

  He states the last word in singular tense. Not plural.

  “I welcome you to enjoy the meal but to respect the vessels who serve it. Pay homage to my miracle. Feed on their beauty for one night. And understand how high I hold your regard and your support and positions in my company. Thank you for your time and attention, gentlemen. You may now eat.”

  Force remains where he is as the meal commences.

  It’s clear everyone here knows the legend of the missing twin because their eyes circle my body like vultures. More so than Bliss’s. When I notice one man lean over to pluck a sushi roll with his chopsticks from my sister’s breast, my intestines tighten up, the butterflies in my belly protesting, reaching for their invisible war hammers. What surprises me the most is how she remains perfectly still without moving or opening her eyes. I can’t think about her one more moment when a set of lips rubs the line of her cleavage to snatch up a black sushi roll from the long banana leaves. However, I know my father must have given these men some prior information. Perhaps even a contract in writing because no skin touches mine—lips, hands, or otherwise.

  Two men smile down at me. Not affectionately. Not at all. Despite the boundaries, they find other methods. Like teasing their chopsticks onto the rolls at my legs, just above my thighs. Chopsticks linger, rubbing my skin sensitively, rousing my breath and body, testing me. Laughter rolls about the room, men’s voices tripping over each other’s, but I catch a few familiar words like ‘the Swan,’ and ‘Skeleton Flower,’ and ‘Force has outdone himself this time’.