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Description
Angela was an artist, but not in the conventional sense. She didn't use canvas and paint, and the idea of sculpting something made out of a material as mundane as clay made her want to vomit. She loathed the idea of creating art for art's sake; anything she made, she wanted there to be a practical use for it, something beyond decoration.

She labored on each piece she created for countless hours, making sure every detail was perfect. Sometimes it could take months for her to finish a single work. She'd always ask me to take a look at her pieces and demanded that I point out something she could improve upon. I was never an artist myself, but thanks to Angela I was able to spot the tiniest flaws in design.

Angela drew her inspiration from everywhere: nature, mythology, both ancient and modern culture. The list went on and on. Once, she sculpted Atlas, the Greek titan who supported the world, and fashioned him into a rather nice coffee table. She chose to reject the semi modern idea of him supporting a spherical Earth, and made him support the flat disk that the planet was believed to be at the time. Made out of a striking flame maple, my only comment was that the proportions in Atlas' body, specifically his arms, were a bit off, but I understood that it was necessary to provide proper support to the tabletop. Other than that one flaw, everything else about the piece was perfect.

I was entranced by the detail in every aspect of Atlas' body. His face showed excruciating pain from countless millennia of supporting the entire Earth, the veins in his neck bulged, and every muscle in his body was strained to the point of breaking. And that was just his body. The intricate detail of each continent and ocean was astounding. Mountains and waves were represented with unparalleled accuracy. The entirety of the top was covered by glass, to make the surface usable as a table. I was so taken by the piece that I bought it from Angela without thinking twice. Atlas now bears his load in my living room.

Today, Angela called me over to her home to critique her most recent work. She told me it was her best yet, and I believed her wholeheartedly because I had seen her visibly improve over the many years of our friendship. I had to admit I was excited to see her new piece myself. I knocked on her door and waited in silent anticipation.

"Elizabeth! I'm so glad you could make it on such short notice!" Angela exclaimed as she answered the door and threw her arms around me. It wasn't really short notice, though; she told me about the finished project a week ago. But for Angela, everything is short notice because she always seems rushed, for whatever reason.

"Never a problem, Angela," I replied, humoring her, "I was free anyway. So now tell me about this piece you've just finished! Ever since you mentioned it, I've been dying to get a peek at it!"

"Patience, my dear Elizabeth," she chided, taking me by the hand and leading me through her front door.

Although Angela didn't like creating art solely for decoration, she adored filling her home with such art, so every time I walked into her house, I always scanned the room for any additions to the quirky little assortment of decorations. Last time I visited her, Angela had bought a charming yet gaudy assortment of vintage wall clocks. My personal favorite was a clock that looked like it came directly from a cartoon. It had the shape of a cat, and the tail acted as the pendulum that kept ticking and tocking as each second passed. The eyes surveyed the room from left to right and back again, too.

This time, I noticed the absence of a few objects. Nothing that Angela herself was overly attached to, but enough was gone that I noticed. A few of her clocks, a handful of statuettes on her coffee table, and a single framed painting were gone. I thought that was odd because in all the years that I knew her, I had never seen Angela throw a decoration out.

"Angela, what happened to a few of your decorations?" I queried.

"Oh I just had to sell some of them to finance the project I'm about to show you," she replied, waving my question off as if it were nothing.

"It must certainly be something fantastic, then!"

"I'm sure you'll love it," she said smoothly, "I'm fairly sure that I've spent more time on this project than on any other one, even Atlas."

After she said that, I let my mind wander as I imagined the enormity of her latest work. The Atlas table was big and endlessly detailed. The piece I was about to see must be even more beautiful, and the potential physical size almost scared me, but I trusted that whatever Angela had created, it would be beautiful.

As she led me through the winding maze of hallways—avoiding any objects that happened to be lying on the floor—to her workshop, I was almost shaking in anticipation. I stopped her.

"Angela, you have to tell me what this new piece is. I can't take it."

"Don't worry yourself to death, Elizabeth. You'll see it soon enough," she teased.

It was then that I realized that she wasn't leading me to her workshop; we took a turn down an adjacent hallway that I had never been to before.

"Angela, where are we going?" I asked, "I don't think I've ever been down this hall."

"I'm taking you to my bedroom. I don't really plan on selling this piece, at least not to strangers. I'm either keeping it or selling it to a close friend, much like I did with Atlas."

I was curious as to why Angela would choose to keep her own work, especially one that she had spent so much time and money on. Her art was how she made her living, after all.

As we wound down the hallway, we finally reached a closed door at the very end, surprisingly bare.

"Alright, here we go," said Angela as she opened the door. Her statement seemed to alleviate my anxiety, for whatever reason.

Angela's room was bare. Not just compared to the rest of her house, but in comparison to anyone's house. The wallpaper on her walls was mostly white with thin, dark blue designs here and there. The desk against the opposite wall was white, although the top was covered in doodles that I figured were preliminary blueprints for Angela's creations. On the wall to the left wall there was her bed. If she were to lean on her headboard and look out the window, her view would be gorgeous. No wonder everything she created was beautiful. She always got to see beauty, so she wanted others to see it too.

"So Angela," I began skeptically, "where's your piece? All I see is your desk and your bed."

"Take a look above the bed."

Above her headboard was dream catcher, though it looked too simple to be crafted by Angela's expert hand. She gingerly removed it and brought it to me. Only then could I see its startling beauty.

"Angela, what materials did you use to make this?" I asked, not believing the astounding beauty displayed before me.

"Well, I suppose I'll start from the center and go outward from there," she began, "all the jewels are real, nothing is cubic zirconium. The one in the middle is a fine amethyst. The surrounding mesh is sterling silver because I just couldn't bring myself to use steel; I really wanted to go all out. The outer ring, the one semicircle inside, the two prongs, the two rings containing the emerald and sapphire, and of course the hanger are all bronze. The cogs are sterling silver as well; I can't tell you how long it took me to make each of them."

"Oh my goodness, Angela," I could barely get the words out, "It's…it's beautiful!"

"I'm not done explaining it yet," she shushed me, "those were just the materials I used. Now check this out."

She unhooked a latch at the top of the rings that held the emerald and sapphire and brought out a chain for each of them. She threaded each onto the chain and put one around her neck. Then she put the other around mine.

I was speechless. I could scarcely believe that Angela created this, and I couldn't even fathom how.

"Angela, I—"

"I made it for you, Elizabeth," she said as she cut me off, "You've looked at all the pieces I've ever made, and you've even bought one that you fell in love with. And I can tell by the look on your face that you've fallen in love with this one, too.

"I know I make my life this way, and each piece I sell counts, but I can survive without selling one piece, so take it. I call it 'Steam Catcher'."

I didn't say anything after that. We just wordlessly embraced, saying more in a hug than we ever could with words. I spent a few more hours at Angela's while we listened to music and sipped a few glasses of wine. And when I went home that night, I proudly hung up the dream catcher above my bed. I slept better that night than I ever had before.