3: Clockwork
An old man rubbed his chin thoughtfully, frowning a little as his fingers encountered a day’s worth of stubble. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your skill, beloved, it’s just that I’m not entirely certain why you chose to apply said skill to…whatever this is.”
The beloved in question looked almost offended. “Because it’s art, of course. And a most unusual challenge to boot! A marriage of the old and new, and what’s more,” gesturing grandly at his partner, “practical!”
“I would’ve just stopped with ‘it’s art,” the old man observed mildly. “I don’t think that practicality really enters into it.”
The piece of art in question was what appeared to be an elaborate clockwork arm, except instead of having a hand, the arm terminated in a wickedly sharp blade. It sat on a countertop which was also host to an assortment of tools and a plate with a sandwich on it that was, the old man noted with disapproval, untouched.
“Look, I’ll show you,” the artist insisted, and flipped a switch to bring the mechanism to life. The arm shuddered slightly, then began moving with a surprising fluidity and proceeded to neatly divide the sandwich into quarters.
“Very impressive, dear, but I am forced to point out that I could achieve the same effect with a knife and a minimum amount of physical exertion.”
“Ugh, I don’t know why I put up with you,” the artist said, throwing his hands in the air in disgust, “you have no imagination.”
“It’s because you think I’m handsome,” the old man replied smugly, drawing close to the artist and kissing him lightly on the cheek, “and because nobody else would let you build a clockwork blade on his kitchen counter.”
“You’re completely fucking insufferable,” the artist replied, but quietly admitted the old man had a point.