The Muse (11 page)

I hugged myself. “Thank you. It’s what I do. I write.”

“Like a published writer?” she asked.

Hadn’t she read my lavish bio? “Yup. I’ve had some stuff read by others.” I didn’t totally lie on that one.

“I’m in awe of writers. I wish I had that talent.”

“It’s not talent, just hard work. Anyone can write if she puts her mind to it.” I spoke like a real pro, like I owned a bookshelf stuffed with my novels, like I earned a living writing by a dim light in my condo sipping sangria and smoking cigarettes as I pounded the keys on an overworked keyboard.

“What do you write?”

Paintbrush in hand, I could create a fun imaginary world full of color and mystique. Who needed to write a novel when one could play out the scenario real time with a real love interest at her fingertips? Perhaps this could be a working novel. A girl falls in love with another girl via Twitter and they live happily ever after in the Twitterverse, tossing each other romantic tweets and creating their life as they pressed the enter key.

I flicked some color on my imaginary canvas. Perhaps I wrote mystery novels. Of course, that could prove much too difficult if she started asking questions. I flicked my illusionary brush with a deeper color. Perhaps I wrote horror stories. Did I want her to think of me as a deep, dark girl who took pleasure in scaring the shit out of people? I wanted to stir her mind with intriguing thoughts. I stroked my canvas with pretty tones. “I write romantic stories.”

“Romantic, as in girl-meets-boy, or romantic as in girl-meets-girl (wink)?”

Oh that wink stirred wonderful things in me, causing my legs to tremble and my nipples to tingle. “Girl-meets-girl of course. That is what you prefer, I hope (wink)?”

A force outside of my control typed these flirts, a force that grew a garden of flirts that bloomed organically and on cue with when I needed them to blossom so that at any time, I could pluck one up and shower her with its brilliance.

“I want to read one of your stories. What’s your name so I can look one up?”

An electric shock zapped me back to my dull condo with its practical lighting and monotone walls.
Great job. Open your big mouth.
I side-stepped her question on my name. “They’re just short stories in anthology books. I’ll send you something.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

I searched my garden of flirts for something smooth. “Sure. Listen, I’ve got to run. Here’s to us both enjoying a beautiful day.”

I logged off and the panic drove like shards through me. I deemed nothing I wrote worthy enough for her beautiful eyes. I’d need to rework something. I ignored that I only had thirty minutes to get showered, eat and drive into work. Instead, I ventured into my office and straight to my file cabinet where I saved printouts of everything I ever wrote, including that first and only piece my teacher had praised.

About thirty minutes into my journey to Jane Knoll short story hell, I realized that all of those letters covering my wall were accurate. My writing sucked and needed some major lift if I ever wanted to see my name in a byline someday. After reading the third sucky story, I called Sanjeev and told him I wasn’t feeling well. I’d be taking a sick day. I needed at the very least eight solid hours to write something that could potentially tickle this girl’s life. I blamed it on my sour stomach from the quarterly meeting.

Doreen called me not more than five minutes later. “Katie gave your speech.”

“Did she mess up?”

“Get this. She acted like the saving grace of marketing. When Sanjeev announced he needed a volunteer because you had gotten sick, she stepped right up and acted like she had just forfeited her seat on one of the lifeboats of a sinking ship.”

“Of course she did.”

“Sanjeev winked at her.” She said this like I would be heartbroken. “She joined him and the new events manager for lunch after that. She came back afterwards and told me that Sanjeev invited her to be on the advisory board committee.”

“Good for her.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not jealous.”

“She’s got nothing on your talents.”

If only she knew how untrue that was. “Thanks, my friend. Listen, I’ve got to run. I’m still not feeling great.”

Thirty minutes later, still sitting on my couch contemplating my story, I decided I’d procrastinated enough. I stood, stretched and cleaned my bathtub, folded my clothes, and hoped an answer would just sweep into my brain and take it on a pleasant journey through the lives of two people falling in love.

By noon, and with my hands resembling the finer side of a pumice stone from scouring the tiles in my bathroom, I began pacing my condo in search of an idea. I folded my hands behind my back and willed a plotline to come pouring down on me. I passed by my magazine rack several times and finally dropped down on my knees in front of them and started scanning them for ideas.

I picked up
Reader’s Digest
and breezed through the table of contents. A girl named Betty Lou Summers wrote a short piece called “My Little Secret” about a housekeeper’s diary. I couldn’t imagine how many times Ms. Betty Lou Summers must have jumped around her living room when she first saw her story published in
Reader’s Digest
. I would have broken a leg for sure.

I picked up
Mademoiselle
and scanned the articles about fashion, about dating, about kissing, about picnicking, about friendships, and panicked some more. What did I know about any of these topics and how would I ever tie them to romance?

What place did I have writing about any of them, especially kissing?

I needed to live these things. I needed to experience them. I needed to understand literally and figuratively what it felt like to hold someone, breathe in someone, and fall in love with someone.

I needed wine.

I lifted the key to Larry’s condo off of my key hook and hunted for some sweet red wine. In addition to scoring an open bottle, I also took off with a bag of Doritos and a half eaten sleeve of thin mints. I needed inspiration. I prepped to launch into my most important writing. I needed this to shine. I needed this to dig deep. I needed Eva to reply back with more exclamation points than words.

I drank two glasses of the wine, ate half the bag of Doritos and two of the thin mints before I finally took out my kitchen timer, sat down at my laptop and stared at the blank white screen. Before setting the timer, I needed a jumpstart – a word, a sentence, anything to get the fingers typing for ten solid minutes without critique. I drummed my antsy fingers against the counter and stared at my reflection in the toaster oven. I traced my finger down the side of my face, imagining Eva’s featherlike touch. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, seeking that sweet spot of peace.

I imagined Eva coaxing me with her soft voice, urging me to write something sweet and romantic. Her eyes would follow my fingers as I typed, mesmerized by their ability to follow my mind’s lead. She would lean in close, bathing me in her pure light, erasing all traces of fears and insecurities.

Eva, my muse, would nourish me with rich energy, refreshing all tired pulses, nerves, and cells. Her flirty powers would lift me up and open my mind to serve as a symbiotic partner to the world that existed outside my condo and sheltered, boring life.

I opened my eyes at this point, poured myself another generous helping of wine and took to my couch. My head spun delightfully and my fingers and toes buzzed. I leaned back against my couch and sipped my wine, imagining Eva curled up beside me, our legs entwined, her hair falling like feathers over her bare shoulder, a sultry smile resting like a twinkle on her face. I closed my eyes, breathed in the wine, imagined Eva’s soft lips brushing up against mine. In this reverie, she swept in like a graceful ballerina, bathing me in her sweet breath. Her lips—soft, moist, and warm—guided me to a romantic spot where together we twirled on point, to a flamenco beat that rose and fell in alternating quick and slow successions. Our tongues swayed suggestively, hypnotizing us into a space flowing with elegance, passion, and perfection. My heart soared to great heights, and leapt in sync with hers as she carried me along her fluidity in her strong and defined arms. Ever light with her touch, my lips melted under the beauty of hers. I craved her and wanted to caress her soft body against my own.

When I opened my eyes, I floated like a feather back down to Earth, breathing heavily, chest bellowing in and out rather quickly, the most delicious twitch taking up flight in between my legs. I cradled my arms around myself and enjoyed the pulse that radiated through me.

When I could stand without risk of falling and cracking my head open on my coffee table, I walked over to my kitchen counter. Move over Jane. CarefreeJanie controlled the driver’s seat now.

I began writing. I wrote over five thousand words without ever even setting the kitchen timer for my allotted ten minutes. I just wrote, ignoring the red marks under misspelled words and the comma splices, and the incorrect verb tenses. I couldn’t backtrack. I had too much in me that threatened to drown me if I didn’t get the words out onto that screen. I poured myself into this story about a passionate kiss between two women set on a seaside bench, sharing an unquenchable desire, a forbidden moment, a truth too powerful to deny. I ended on a sultry note and dropped my head to my knees to catch my breath.

How would I live a happy, fulfilled life without ever indulging in the touch of her soft lips on mine?

# #

Larry and I sorted clothes that night in silence, each caught up in our own reveries. He was probably thinking about his date with Tim later that night after we finished up our laundry session.

Larry had first met Tim at the mall. He walked into Outdoor World and headed over to the rock climbing mountain in the center of the store. People were clapping and whistling and so he picked up his pace to catch a piece of the buzz. He stood behind a dozen or so other people and watched a man, with the best calves he’d ever seen – his words, not mine – mount the side of the fake mountain like a monkey. He swung his arms and catapulted himself up with the ease of a child playing on a jungle gym. When he reached the summit, he waved at all of the people below, and, as Larry recalled, looked right into his eyes and winked. Well, Larry being the big ‘in-person’ flirt that he was latched onto that wink and invited the guy to get some Mexican food at Chevy’s. Larry said he knew from the moment the guy asked for a Cosmo over a beer that he adored him.

Larry dumped his pile of clothes in the washer. “The best thing about this guy is that he runs his own mortgage company. He’s got twenty loan officers working for him.” He cocked his head waiting for me to agree that yes, indeed, any man would be lucky to have him, the great catch.

I turned to my washing machine instead and spoke while pouring my detergent in the hole. “When do I get to meet him?”

“You’re going to meet him soon. I promise. He’s different than the rest I usually date, though.”

I fed coins into the machine. “How so?”

He wet his lips and pulled his lower one into his mouth the way he did when something stressed him. “Well, he’s in a complicated situation.”

“How complicated?” I slid into our usual seats by the window, careful not to touch the arms of the chair because I’d seen too many people stuff their face with food and then run their grimy hands all over the arms. Larry just stared ahead out of the window.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Nothing we can’t handle,” he said in his high-pitched, I’m-just-fine voice.

I sat still and took in his stress. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t promise you’re going to sleep well in the next few nights.” I looked over his crossed legs to the magazines sitting idle on the table next to him. “Can you pass me the
Mademoiselle
?”

He exhaled through his nose and his nostrils grew large and flared like a bull. “I can’t stand when you do that.” He stood up.

I remained calm with my hands folded neatly in my lap. “When I do what?” I loved toying with him like this and seeing him come all unglued.