The Muse (16 page)

“Sure.”

“Late night last night?” she asked.

“Alarm failed me.”

“Ah.” She tapped my cubicle wall. “You might want to check your email.”

I did. I hopped on immediately and sure enough she had emailed Sanjeev the production schedule and highlighted three projects of mine that were late. That bitch changed the dates on me, shining the light on her, the glowing star of marketing, the glorious one meeting all of her deadlines ahead of schedule.

I popped over to Doreen’s cubicle a moment later. “I feel like having some fun today.”

“How?”

“Let’s steal her keys and watch her panic.”

Doreen looked up from her desk, her pink lipstick shimmered a bit too much. “Just breathe for a few minutes and let it pass.”

I wrapped my arm around her shoulder. “Actually, I don’t even care about her today. She can’t ruin my mood.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, I bet you never thought you’d be able to say that you’re friends with a writer whose work is going to be in
Glamour
in two months.”

She pulled away. “You’re writing again?”

“Yup.”

“I thought you were tired of being bullied by mean editors?”

”

“How?”

“By my muse.”

Her eyes stretched wide and a smile danced onto her face. “What’s his name?”

Not even fear could squash my joy. “Actually it’s ‘her’ name. And, I don’t kiss and tell.”

She covered her mouth and squealed. Her blue eyes sparkled under a fresh layer of moisture. I bounced away, feeling lighter and happier than I had in a very long time.

# #

Wearing sexy underwear thrilled me. I wore them out that day to buy groceries and when I walked down the cereal aisle, my hips swayed more. The lace lifted me up, way up to this crazy, birds’-eye view level where I could soar across the shiny floors with eloquent rises and falls and agile force that even turned one young stock boy’s head. He looked up from his boxes of oatmeal and smiled at me. No one ever smiled at me. I didn’t know what to do with this smile, so I just sort of giggled and bolted towards my Chex mix section.

Later when I messaged with Eva about my short story success, I decided to take off the sweatpants and lounge on my couch in just my red undies. I munched on a bowl of my Chex mix and waited for her to respond to my question about whether or not she would prefer flying on an airplane or riding her motorcycle cross country.

“You’ve never been on the back of a motorcycle have you?”

I couldn’t imagine more of a thrill clinging to her, flushing my body up against hers. “Never.”

“I’ll be your first.”

I swallowed hard. A fire stoked deep inside. My chest ached. “I’d love that.”

We continued talking about silly things like how her cat, Jarvis, liked to smack her radio alarm clock each morning to wake her up and feed him and how I once walked around the Columbia Mall in boxer shorts and didn’t know it until I was halfway around the mall.

She asked about my life growing up as a budding writer, and whether I sat around and mulled over stories while playing with dolls and building tree houses. I embellished just a little and told her all about my wonderful, happy childhood growing up in a neighborhood teeming with friendly kids who invited me to their birthday parties and to go bike riding down Sycamore Street, a winding wooded road where the trees acted as canopies for miles.

She asked me many innocent questions and I enjoyed filling her curious mind with answers that shined of the good times that a normal, well-adjusted person would offer.

“Janie, will I ever get to see a real picture of you?”

My breath rolled around in my chest. “You must already have an image of me in place? You know, like a character in a book?”

“I do. I picture you all the time lately, when I’m sleeping, when I’m walking, when I’m showering.”

I bit my lower lip, riding a series of waves so strong they toppled me over. “What do I look like in your mind?”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“Go on,” I wrote.

“Come on, no fair. You get to see me.”

“I don’t have many pictures of myself.”

“Just snap a picture and send it. What are you afraid of?”

I stood up and backed away from the computer like it was a ticking time bomb. I planned out everything in my life according to logic and strategy. If I were walking through a park and someone tried to pull me into a bush, I would whack the creep with the bottom of my hand right upside his nose and knock him out. If I were driving and my brakes stopped working, I would put my car in neutral and sideswipe an object if necessary to prevent massive damage. I stored forty cans of kidney beans and another forty jars of peanut butter in my storage unit in case of emergency. I planned things out to the point of an extremist. Yet, I forgot to plan an answer for something this important? “I’ll get one to you.”

“I just want to see the beautiful girl I am talking with every day.”

My head swirled in delightful circles. No sangria in the world could rival this buzz. “You’re more beautiful.”

“I really want to kiss you.”

I floated. “Please do.”

“Mwah.”

“Mmm, I felt that one.” I traced my lips imagining hers.

“Was it yummy?” she asked.

Luscious, juicy, warm only touched the surface of adjectives to explain the potential yumminess. “You taste like sweet berries, babe.”

“I really like when you call me babe.”

My entire body quivered. I could only manage a wink.

“Please send me a picture. I’m waiting.”

“Okay. I’ll get one to you, soon. XO. I’ve got to run. Have a great rest of your day.”

I logged off, hung my head between my legs and breathed like I had just crossed the finish line of the New York City Marathon.

She could never know that the real CarefreeJanie was really the shy, geeky girl too afraid to admit her true identity. I couldn’t possibly send her a real picture of me.

I stood up on this buzz kill, placed my fists on each end of my hips and panicked. She’d take one look at my picture and recognize me, the girl who caught her wearing the wrong shoes, the girl she most likely saw run out of the quarterly meeting like the building was on fire, and the girl who could’ve just come clean and admitted she dropped the coffee all over the front of her boobies. I ruined my chance of ever being trustworthy, of being confident, of not looking like the dweeb I really was.

I whined out loud to my condo. I didn’t want this stress. I couldn’t afford stress to enter into this equation. I wanted clear, concise, to-the-point emotions here.

I needed a drink. Wine wouldn’t cut it. I needed to take out the big guns. I dashed to my kitchen, reached up to the top of my fridge and pulled out my unopened bottle of Absolute vodka I had bought for New Year’s Eve in anticipation of Larry and me drinking it up in front of the television. Instead some asshole lover who turned out to be a drug user stole him from me that night.

I poured myself some orange juice and Absolute and downed it in less than three gulps. I waited for the buzz to grip me. Slowly, lusty bubbles tickled my brain and relieved some of the panic. I drank another, this time adding just a smidgeon more vodka. Five minutes later, I perched in front of my laptop researching cameras.

Okay, so I didn’t play the move very strategically with Eva. Not a big deal. I could still survive this small little storm of stupidity by continuing to play along with her. It didn’t have to end here. I could get creative and string this along. Then, if one day I ever became brave enough to actually face her, I’d explain the whole messed up silly misunderstanding of not telling her about the fact that I was the girl who spilled coffee on her. I’d blame it on embarrassment.

She was a beautiful girl with a thoughtful soul. She’d surely understand my logic. Otherwise, why would I want to be with someone who didn’t get that? Right?

Not everyone carried confidence around like a designer pocketbook. Some of us had some scratches and missing zippers and had to hold to their broken belongings a little tighter and with more protection than others.

In between rapid inhales and even quicker exhales, I imagined the picture taking. Perhaps I could hide behind some props, and just reveal an overly dramatic made-up eye, complete with false eyelashes and wild, wacky, sparkly, blue eye shadow. I could dye my hair with a temporary rinse. Or maybe I could hang upside down and look fun. She’d never recognize me. I’d touchup the shit out of it.

First line of order. I’d have to buy a camera, one that could shoot miracle photos. Then, I’d probably need to invest in Photoshop because these pictures would for sure need some major overhaul.

I plopped down on my couch.

What did I just get myself into?

Chapter Nine

I didn’t covet a career in photography for a good reason. When I snapped a picture, I usually cut off heads, caught people in strange yawns, shot the corner of one of my fingers instead of a critical pose, or shook the camera so much while trying to be steady that the whole picture blurred out of focus and resembled a psychedelic poster straight out of the 1970s.

I went to Walmart and bought a Canon Easy Zoom. Easy zoom my ass. Even the on button screwed with my intellect. I read the instructions and fiddled with the darn thing for an hour before I could figure out how the self-timer worked. The thing had so many settings. I’d imagine if I needed to shoot the inside of a volcano or brave hurricane-force winds or shoot a picture during a blackout, I’d probably find a setting to accommodate me and my feeble photographical skillset. I just needed the freaking thing to snap a photo of me trying to look inconspicuous. Of course, the camera didn’t come packaged with that setting.

I bought a case for the camera, too, so if this picture-taking thing became a normality in my and Eva’s Twitter relationship, I’d have an easier way to store it and lug it around to different locations. She’d eventually tire of the one and only feasible backdrop in my condo, my bathroom with its deep, gold accent wall behind the toilet. So, not only did I have to figure out a way to disguise three-quarters of my face, but I also needed to snap this photo in such a way that the girl wouldn’t think I was taking a pee at the same time the camera clicked.

The lighting worked wonders with its soft, golden splash. I cleared off the extra rolls of toilet paper I had stacked on the back of the toilet and replaced the jar of pebbles and candles from the glass shelf with something less bathroom-looking – an ivy plant, a small cactus plant, and a couple of my favorite books. I stepped back and examined my props. I straightened out
The Forbidden Garden
and shifted
No Ordinary Moments
with
The Glass Castle
so they stood from tallest to shortest.

The white porcelain shined too much. Two minutes later, I covered it with a baby blue afghan my grandmother had crocheted for me years ago when I finally offered my parents the break they needed and moved out on my own. I clicked a few random shots of the scene, played around with my settings like a pro and decided I’d go with the portrait setting because it didn’t highlight the dust trails on the gold wall. I would gladly turn a bathroom into a portrait studio, but wash my walls? No way.

Okay, onto myself. I pulled my hair back into an Orioles baseball cap, and lowered the lid so it sat right above my eyebrows. CarefreeJanie would be a sporty chick who liked going to see Orioles games at Camden Yards every time she could. She would play softball for a girls’ league and spend hours after the games at the bar drinking beer with her teammates, who by the way, would laugh at every one of her jokes. She would also drive a Jeep Wrangler and indulge on long weekend trips to the eastern shore where she’d take a couple of her friends along with her for some beach volleyball. They’d follow up their fun in the sun with a bonfire on the beach, acoustic guitar, and maybe just for shits and giggles, she could be into weed every once in a great while.