The Muse

When I reached my apartment, I confidently resumed my writing. Never before had I felt so completely alive and focused. Again, words flew onto the paper at the speed of thought. I never paused for a moment as I completed complex scenarios that would have given me trouble before yesterday. My previous research fell into place among the smoothly transitioning pages, and scraps I had written in past months lined up to fold into the story with ease.

This was supreme magic. This was creativity at its most blissful. This was…too good to be true.

At last, my train of writing was halted, and I leaned back in my chair to stare at the ceiling. This all seemed so ridiculous to my cynical mind; how could I be living in a fantasy? Were my impressions of success altered by an emotional high? When was the inevitable crash back to reality?

I winced at the painful thoughts and tossed down my pen. Sighing, I made a metal note to call my old college friend; she would be a welcomed opinion, even if it was the pinch that finally woke me. Then I realized this was the first time since meeting Heather that I had thought of another human being, and I let out a self-depreciating chuckle.

The euphoric memories of the past two days began to seep back into my thoughts like medicine, calming my anxieties. I vowed not to dwell on what could happen, but to savor every good thing like a small sip of the finest wine.

Before I knew it, the phone was in my hand; it seemed more important than ever to get outside feedback on my writing and on my experiences.

“James!” I greeted her warmly when she answered, using the college nickname.

“Heyyy, great to hear from you,” she replied. “How’s it going?” Jamie and I had been next-door neighbors for several years. It would be impossible to count the times we went grocery shopping at 2am or laughed at the worn-out copy of a Monty Python comedy. We had been a sounding board for each other many times in the years since then, and I trusted her opinion above that of anyone else.

“Well, it’s complicated,” I began, “but in a nutshell, I am doing un-f’n-believably well.”

“Ohhhkay,” she laughed.

“I’ll fill you in if you have the time, but how are you doing?”

“Oh, pretty good. Not much different since we last spoke,” she replied flippantly. “You know; same ol’ job with it’s same bullshit; same house with an endlessly shedding cat; new boyfriend. Same ol’. But enough about me; don’t keep me in suspense any longer.”

“Well…” I drew the word out, “her name is Heather.”

Jamie laughed. “Ah, so you got some.”

“Man, did I ever!” I paraphrased my past two days and the effect it had on my writing.

“Sweet!” came her enthusiastic comment, and I asked her if she would do me the huge favor of being my reality check. “You know I will,” Jamie said without any hesitation, “as long as I do not have to edit.” We laughed at this. Years ago in an attempt to combine her superior education with my writing enthusiasm, we had tried partnering on a writing project with nearly disastrous results. In the end, we had to back away before it damaged our friendship – turned out I was a stubborn ass about my writing when it came to editing it.

I promised to fax over my latest chapters, and she agreed to go easy on my grammar.

-------

The sun was setting against the building outside my window by the time I ran the fax, so I gave Heather a quick call to confirm we were still going out tonight. Then after a hasty shower, I went to the back of my closet to find the right clothes for the occasion.

I had the taxi wait on the curb while I buzzed Heather’s room number.

“Be right there,” Heather answered after the second time I rang.

The vision that stepped from the door toward me will forever burn in my memory. Heather was the supreme image of elegance in her deep blue dress, which flowed along her curves as she stepped down to the street. Even though the color was dark, the intriguing material of her dress subtly reflected the light from the surrounding lamps, making it seem as if the reflective surface was hidden beneath the dress.

A plunging neckline seemed to balance on the swells of her breasts, exposing a curled necklace of gold and silver that matched the band around her upper arm and small wavy earrings. Her shiny golden hair was drawn up to the top of her head, leaving one curling strand to hang forward in an artful fashion.

The effect was pure and potent feminine magic.

With my blood boiling, I bowed to her as if worshipping a goddess.

She smiled, saving me from my speechlessness. “Might I get some help with my coat, gentle man?” Until then, I had not noticed the coat that was draped over her arm, and I held it out so she could roll gracefully into it. She leaned into me and I caught the faint, heady wisp of vanilla and musk.

“Heather,” I whispered, encompassing her in an embrace, “you look and smell divine.”

She twisted in my arms just enough to be able to look up into my eyes. “And how do I feel?”

“Too good to be real,” I replied with feeling, instantly regretting the vocalizing of my lingering doubts, but Heather only laughed lightly.

“Whatis real?” She asked with a grin in her eyes, and then she stretched up to kiss me with a light but lingering touch. “That feel real?”

“Oh yes,” I breathed, determined to move past my doubts. “Let’s eat, or go back upstairs.” I ushered her into the night and the waiting cab. “Gambolli’s, please,” I told the driver.

My favorite restaurant had an amazing environment. Beside the fantastic food and first-rate wait staff, the dimmed lighting and hushed environment in a city where noise ruled made it worth the high prices. Even when it was packed, sound died quickly. And because of the intelligent layout, you never saw more than a fifth of the patrons.

“Nice,” Heather commented when we were seated. “I am surprised I have never been here before, it’s so close to my place.”

“The Italian gem of the City,” I assured her, leaning closer. We settled into a content silence for the few minutes it took for our waiter to arrive.

“Good evening,” came the cultured voice. “May I get you something to drink?”

Glancing at Heather, I knew she wanted me to order for us. “House water for both, please.”

“Very good.” The waiter talked briefly about the specials and then nodded to me before leaving.

“It’s imported,” I explained to her, “and it’s tart, clean taste is a perfect compliment to complex tastes.” It struck me then how lovesick I was and how I must sound like a fool. “Unless,” I finished lamely, “you want something else.”

She shook her head with a quirk in her lip. “You are my guide tonight. I’m along for the experience and pleasure of the moment.”

“As you wish.” I covered her hand with mine and flushed with desire.

We sat in silence again until our waiter approached, poured the first glass and set the bottle within our reach. Heather laughed in amusement when he asked if we were ready to order.

“I’m afraid we have not looked yet.”

“This is no problem. Enjoy the fine company and let me know when you are ready.” He was smooth.

“Give us five more minutes, please,” I instructed, and the waiter receded.

Heather leaned toward me. “So what do you recommend, my guide?”

I glanced around in a conspiratorial gesture. “If it weren’t so inappropriate, I’d suggest we skip the meal and move straight to the dessert.”

“Hmm,” she murmured in agreement, emerald eyes sparkling with mirth, “inappropriate, yes, but I know how you feel.”

“However,” I continued, letting my gaze drop suggestively, “I suppose enjoying this now will make later that much sweeter.”

“Stop before it gets too hard,” she whispered.

I sat back and cleared my throat. “I recommend the cannelloni; every ingredient is hand-made and perfect. So perfect, in fact, that I will have the same.”

Heather grinned at my antics before looking around her again. I watched her take in her environment, soaking it up with an almost child-like interest.

“So how did you learn of this place?” I knew she would enjoy the tranquil murmuring, so different from the everyday noises of life in the City.

“A client brought me here once, back in another lifetime, it seems. I felt this was the most perfect eating environment, not even spoiled by talk of business.”

“I can see how business talk could seem almost irreverent. So, tell me about this past life.”

I hesitated a long moment. “I’d hate to ruin the mood with frustrating memories.”

“You won’t,” she promised, squeezing my hand gently. I waited a moment longer, being coerced by her attentive look. She was right. Surprisingly, it did not bother me to tell her about my life in the corporate world, my immersion into its intense challenges, fleeting triumphs, and unavoidable roadblocks.

“I do not think most humans are meant to live in such a high-strung state of efficiency,” I explained, “but through a clever series of prods and rewards, I was driven hard until I burned out. It was long after I left that I began to realize the stress kept me from being who I wanted to be. As if I sacrificed personal growth for money.” I grinned at this irony. “I guess I am trying to make up for lost time now.”

I realized I had only paused once to order for us and again when the food was presented. Feeling like an attention hog, I motioned with my fork. “Your turn. You make me talk too much.”

“Not at all,” she shook her head earnestly, “it’s fascinating to hear of experiences so foreign to my own.”

“Well, just my own,” I admitted, “but I guess you can infer a bit from that single experience.”

Heather nodded and then shrugged dismissively. “Not much to my background.”

“Oh no you don’t,” I wagged my finger in a friendly reprimand. “You owe me.”

“Ok, ok,” she grinned, easing back in her seat. “I was a spoiled Daddy’s girl.”

“Aha!” I exclaimed as if unveiling her greatest secret. She laughed and continued.

“But I knew there was more to life than being a spoiled brat, unlike my little circle of friends. I was very pensive for my age, maybe more moody, but I spend a lot of time thinking about my future. By my sophomore year at a local college, I realized I was getting it all wrong, preparing for a future I did not want. Can you guess what my major was?”

“Rocket scientist?” I guessed with a goofy grin that earned me a swat on the hand.

“Nooo,” Heather made a face, and I swear she would have stuck her tongue out at me had we not been in such a fine restaurant. “I was going to be a teacher. You know, make a difference, change the world. I was confused, trying to live someone else’s plan.

“So, I moved here from Upstate to change my view of life.” She smiled at the distant memories. “I almost got more than I bargained for. By then I had figured out my life was a quest, an adventure. A friend got me into art school to put training behind my doodles.”

She leaned to me. “Here’s where it gets a little embarrassing. To pay for my artist habit and lifestyle, I promised a friend of a friend that I would try modeling. We had a few sessions as the dirty old man tried to get me into increasingly risqué poses. For my portfolio, he said. Ha!” She leaned even closer and hissed, “he wanted me to do nude modeling.

“I called him on it and stormed out. Then I abused my friend about the sad mess until he promised to make it up to me.” She laughed again at the memory. I was struck by how unconsciously charming she was, as effortless to her as breathing. I knew from very close and personal experience how phenomenal her body was, and knew it must have taken great strength of character to resist the temptations – having little money made justifying something like that all too easy.

“So you resisted the temptations…” I prompted when her musing thoughts kept her silent.

“You could say that,” she giggled, and leaned close again with a glint in her eyes. “But I ended up worse off…now don’t laugh.” She paused for effect as I held my breath. “Pantyhose modeling.” I almost laughed at the anticlimatic revelation.

“Seems the ol’ geezer had a few legitimate connections. So the highlight of my day was standing for hours in hot hose while old women fussed over my positions. And for all that, I got to show off my legs to America’s women as they browsed through catalogs.”

“Not bad,” I teased, “but they missed the best parts of you.”

“Oh, eventually I moved up to modeling padded B-cup bras.”

“No, no, I meant your wit and charm.” This time we both laughed.

I ordered strong coffee at the end of the meal and continued to bask in her companionship. Some part of me knew I could never feel contentment like this at any other moment in my life.

“Thanks for the wonderful dinner, Kev,” she said warmly as I handled the tab. She kissed me affectionately, and seeing the look in my eyes, whispered, “Behave for only a little while longer.”

“You ask the impossible,” I murmured.

She stood with a grin and asked, “Where’s the ladies room?”

“Good idea. Let me show you.”

-------

When we had gathered our coats from the friendly old maitre d’ and stepped into the mild night, Heather suggested we walk back to her flat. Though it meant waiting longer for dessert, I readily agreed, savoring ever glance, every small contact.

Almost to her place, we passed a dark alley. Something made me turn my head at that precise moment. I saw a glint of steel.

I cried in surprised, jumping back a step as a grizzled bum partly emerged from the shadows like a striking snake. My warm bubble was instantly burst, and my nerves felt as if I had fallen into ice water.No, no, no, I thought as I slowly raised my hands.

“Stop,” he rasped harshly, jabbing at my hand to make sure I got his point.

“Look, man,” I said in a surprisingly steady voice. With my reality suddenly tipped, I certainly did not feel steady. “Careful with that thing. Want money?” He nodded, never taking his rabid eyes off my hands.

Ever so slowly, I reached for my wallet, pulling out the thin wad of cash. My heart was racing wildly. Lunging quickly, he snatched the money from my hand and pocketed in one motion.

His eyes went to Heather and lingered.

“Her jewelry.” I glanced at her. With widened eyes, she was staring at the bum. Had the wind not blown a curl of her hair, she could have been a statue.

“Leave the lady out of this, please.” I turned back to him. “We are not rich, fake gold.” I realized how stupid this must sound to the sub-human before us who was desperate enough to risk open confrontation. I glanced at Heather again; she had not moved a muscle, but I could see no fear on her face.

“Here,” I told him, “take my watch instead. Might get another hundred from it.”

“All of it,” he grunted with a sneer, looking back at Heather.

I lost my hearing then, or rather, it sounded like an ocean in my head. My fingertips went numb and I stopped breathing.

I was moving, pushing the knife hand away. In an instant, I curled my other arm and launched my elbow into his face. With a crack, I felt bright pain fill my entire arm. The vagrant crumpled to the ground.

I bent over, cradling my injured arm and breathing heavy between clenched teeth. Pain brought intense waves of hatred for this thing that threatened to ruin my life and my night. I felt flush and hot, and I was shaking. Images rode unbidden through the pain, and I saw my shoe crushing the neck and the face, over and over. Ever fiber screamed for revenge, and I struggled for control even as the pain began to subside in my arm.

Then I felt a touch on my back, and my rage vanished.

“You okay?” Heather asked softly, and I straightened and worked my arm back and forth before nodding. Moist eyes were filled with concern.

“Nothing broken, but probably going to be one hell of a bone bruise,” I informed her. “You?”

“Maybe a bad dream or two,” she answered quietly, and I hugged her to me. My pulse and breathing slowed. I felt better holding her, almost normal again.

“Let’s go home,” I suggested quietly, refusing to look at the fallen tramp. I felt her nod against my chest before pulling away and taking my hand.

We walked the remaining blocks in a brooding silence. Once in her place, I flopped onto the couch with a heavy sigh.

“Be right back,” was all she said and went into her closet. I leaned back and shut my eyes against the pain in my elbow, but they popped open instantly as images and residual desires of violence returned. I settled for staring at the ceiling to keep the images at bay.

I felt the couch give as Heather sat next to me. I lowered my eyes to look at her, and she smiled. She had changed into a large, paint-smudged shirt, which hid all but her bare legs. She curled a leg under her.

“Tell me how you feel,” she said gently.

“I feel wrung-out.”

“No,tell me how you feel.” And then she nodded at a notebook and pen on the coffee table. I squinted at her, waiting for some tasteless punch line.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Na-uh. Now is the time to write what you feel, channel those emotions; maybe even make progress on your book.”

I stared at this scantily clad beauty and felt confusion.

“Surely you jest.” I tried to sound light.

“I felt your emotions shake you to the core tonight, very powerful emotions; the essence of creativity. Most guys would use apathy to shield them and be flippant about the whole thing. But, Kev, you don’t hide from your feelings, you wrestle with them. The added bravery is wasted if you don’t channel that into your writing.”

I almost choked at her words, which were both flattering and offensive. I had to stand.

“Do not misunderstand your emotions,” she cautioned, following me to the bar top. “Complex emotions make us human.”

“Wrong!” I turned on her. “Control over those emotions makes us human.”

“Actually,” she countered smoothly, taking the wind out of my sails, “control makes usmore than human. And channeling those feelings into our art makes us artists.”

“I’ve got to go,” I told her, putting my coat back on. She said nothing, making no attempt to stop me. On some immature level, this fueled me, and I left without saying goodbye.

-------

It was difficult not to get angry at this turn of events. On some level I understood what she was saying, but it just made no sense to me in its current context. I figured I had resisted the raging urges, but I did not feel very controlled. I felt confusion and anger and bone-deep disappointment in a complex, pulsing web of emotions.

When I got home, I could not settle down. After throwing off my coat, I paced my small apartment like a caged tiger. My eye caught sight of paper on my fax output tray. Stalking to the desk, I snatched the fax and sat down heavily in my chair. It was from Jamie, a simple, handwritten note:

Kev,

My technical and professional opinion of this: Umm, WOW!

Nurture whatever energies you have found and keep it

coming. You may make a believer of me yet!

James

So, my penwas on fire. Jamie has seen much of my previous writing and would not mislead me. Staring at the fax, I could not stop the feelings of excitement that crept back into me. In the past two days, I had made more progress on my novel than the past six months or more. Unbelievable progress…I could not doubt I was inspired.

But was Heather right? I looked at her logic from the tranquility of my familiar surroundings; I always feel more lucid when I am not pressured. No doubt I had funneled the emotional energies from my meeting Heather, turning her inspirations into…

And then it clicked into place emotionally. That’s exactly what inspiration is: the moment when emotions, raw energies, are transformed into creativity. Although far more frightening, tonight’s incident should be no less instrumental in my writing.