Credit: Justin Randall

He turned to Sally, who still pushed down the red button. She let go. The sense of completion didn’t go away.

Bob stopped breathing, afraid to destroy the effect. He stared at Sally.

"You're dripping," she whispered.

Bob exhaled and reached for towel. "Ready?"

She nodded, her thumb poised over the button.

Bob had often dreamed what it would be like to shrug off his compulsions. He'd envisioned gazelles racing across the steppe, a dam breaking in slow motion or a rocket lifting off--images of force set free, his true will shooting toward whatever he wanted.

Now his dream became part of his life. Whenever the homunculus tried to ensnare him with a pointless ritual, with the promise of things being right if he only lifted his fork one more time, whenever he felt the lure of counting, Sally and the red button would be there to free him. Zap. Like swapping flies.

The new homunculus learned. The compulsions receded. Hours passed without rituals. Bob was able to return to his job as an assistant in a small frame shop. Sally purchased an ethnic pouch for the done box so she could carry it when she and Bob went out dancing.

Bob mixed paint on his palette, blending white, red and ochre dollops into skin colour. He gazed at the unfinished painting, a medieval battle scene dripping with blood and gore. Horses rolled their eyeballs, frothing at the mouth, and warriors beheaded each other.

It was Bob's first hobby, abandoned because his homunculus never left him enough time. Now he took evening classes in oil painting, and his first project turned out well, even though Sally rejected the notion of mounting it in the living room once it was finished.

Bob filled another sketchy face with skin-colour. Patiently, he added darker and lighter hues, sculpting cheekbones, lips, and nostrils--a human face in agony. It amazed him how the paint transformed into light and texture on the canvas. He inhaled the scent of turpentine, and stood back wiping his nose. What next? Should he paint another face, or have a go at the clouds?

He put down the palette and continued gazing at the painting. The naked canvas peeked out in places. He needed to finish it. Yet he couldn’t gain traction. Nothing called out to him in need of further improvement.
He stood for a long while, paralysed. The sun shone through the window, warming the toes in his sandals. A smile spread on his face.

Of course! He hadn't recognised the feeling because he wasn't used to it occurring without Sally pushing the done button. But it was the same feeling, unmistakable. Warm, calm, and quiet. The painting was done.

He blinked. How could he feel that the painting was done when clearly it wasn't? He reached for the palette, but the sight of the paint globs and sticky brushes filled him with weary disgust. His hand fell beside his thigh, and peace seized him again when he looked at the painting one last time before removing it from the easel.