On the Verge by Garen Glazier

their poor diet or the cheap wine on the strange visions they saw in their sleep. They had called it an affliction, but Dakryma knew his little sojourns into their subconscious had been just the stimulation those free spirits had needed. It wasn’t an affliction so much as creative illumination. They provided him with sustenance and he gave them inspiration. He was their muse.
    Usually Dakryma would surreptitiously follow them home. As long as he knew where they slept he could find them; it was one of the talents of the incubi. But Stuck had found him in that crowded café and approached him with an offer: sit as a model for a new painting he was undertaking. The recompense was of little matter to Dakryma. He was wealthy with money and property gained over the many centuries he had haunted the world, but the thought of being the subject of a work of art painted by this intriguing man was intoxicating.
    The two men walked the short distance to Stuck’s studio, each edified by the company of the other. The afternoon was dreary and they strode quickly, hoping to avoid the coming downpour. Just a few blocks from Stuck’s apartment, they lost the race. The skies opened and torrents of rain soaked both men’s fine jackets and crisp linen shirts. It ruined their soft leather shoes and caused their carefully coifed hair to droop inelegantly into their eyes.
    In the studio they stripped off their soaked clothes. Stuck changed into the working clothes he kept in a small cupboard, but he asked that Dakryma remain nude. The incubus was used to seeing the naked body in the service of art. In his recent travels around Paris he’d come across plenty of models, usually female but occasionally male, posed in various states of undress. He knew from his nocturnal visitations what often happened between artist and model as the soft light of day faded into the sensual dark of night. Dakryma enjoyed the company of both sexes, finding that the different varieties of melancholy they exuded satisfied his varied needs. He thrilled a little at the idea, but it was not to be. Stuck had a more limited view of sex and, more than that, he was devoted to his beautiful wife.
    But Stuck was mesmerized by the man even without the promise of pleasure. He sat for him on a plain bench, feet close together, knees almost touching. One elbow dug into the flesh of his thigh so that his forearm became the sinewy pedestal upon which his hand, fingers curled rapaciously, supported the full weight of his heavy head. His other arm was cocked out to his side and bent at the elbow forming a right angle that drove his curled fist down in a gesture that simultaneously indicated stability and the potential for imminent violence.
    Stuck asked Dakryma to stare intensely at him, to imagine himself as a mesmerist in the throws of a hypnotic revelry. For Dakryma this was not something he had to feign; it came naturally, so entranced was he by the artist working in front of him. As Stuck worked he didn’t descend into a frenzied mania of flying paint and scrubbing brushes. He calmly applied pigment to canvas with deliberation. It was with these deeply reflective gestures that he crafted Dakryma’s image and the incubus devoured the melancholy of the artist’s energy with its heady mixture of dreams and yearning.
    He came back to Stuck’s studio often. He wasn’t sure how many times he posed. He would sit there for hours, arms asleep, neck stiff, but he never minded. Stuck wouldn’t show him the work-in-progress. He said he only wanted Dakryma to see the piece once it had been finished. Stuck never explained, but Dakryma heard the nerves in his voice and didn’t press him for a glimpse. He didn’t want his curiosity to ruin things. The energy he gained from their sessions was intense and it was worth a great deal to him to keep their relationship on good terms.
    Finally one day Stuck paused, sighed and backed away from the canvas. It was done he said, and he wanted