The Muse

I thought about calling Heather, admitting I was an idiot. Of course, she was right; it simply had not been something I could accept due to the smokescreen of my red-hot emotions.

Instead of calling her, I reached for my ragged notepad. She would be disappointed if I wasted this time. I leaned back in my chair for a minute, reliving the night’s events and feeling how they affected me. Then, ignoring the discomfort in my elbow, I dived into my writing.

Breaking as little as possible, I nailed the emotional climax of my novel and carried the momentum into the ending. It was such satisfying progress that I was almost distracted.

I knew there was plenty of work to finish before the rough draft would be complete, but I had never felt this sense of closure before. It was as if the book would complete itself now; all the tricky work was behind me, and it read beautifully, smooth and powerful.

It was 5am.

Fuck it, I thought and phoned Heather. It did not surprise me that she was awake. I guess I had already accepted the fact we shared some mystical creative bond. And now I accepted the reality of my creativity. I told her as much.

“I’m so happy you are understanding your talent; understanding how life feeds us. I used tonight to finish my masterpiece.” She sounded as satisfied as I felt.

“Wow, really?”

“Oh, Kev, I felt so vulnerable tonight.”

“You did not act scared.”

“Do I need to act scared to feel it? I absorbed the horrible emotions, and they fueled me; even the hurt when you did not understand.”

“Heather, I am so sorry. It still feels bizarre even though I accept it.”

“It is strange, but it’s a part of us and what we can do. Oh please, come see my finished masterpiece. Help me celebrate.”

“I would not want to miss the celebration for anything.”

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At the door, she gave me a hug that seemed to stretch the minutes in comfortable silence. I felt the press of her warm body through the soft white nightgown. Her hair was gathered in a pile on top of her head, and I breathed in its fresh scent. I felt a strong contentment even as I was aroused. Then at last she led me by the hand to the far wall.

Her finished painting still sat in the easel. It was a commanding work of art, with a stark blend of bright colors on a dark, brooding background. As I stared, I began to see patterns in the riot of colors, anguished faces hid behind or among the patterns, as if assaulted by the brighter colors. All the faces I could see looked like Heather.

“Intense,” I murmured, and I heard some humor come back into Heather’s tone.

“Is that all you can say? I thought writers had big vocabularies.”

“You’d think so,” I mused, “but this painting is fascinating yet disturbing; I may have to invent words to describe it.”

“So it accomplishes what I wanted if makes you uneasy even though you like it. You do like it, don’t you?”

“Oh, I love it.”

“No,” she laughed lightly, “you love me.”

“How can I not? You are everything.”

“Tell me more,” she prompted.

“You are, all at once, shy yet bold, intense and witty, potent yet somehow fragile. You are, by far, the most exciting, intelligent and sexy person I know.”

“Yes?” she purred, eyes lidded with satisfaction at my praise. She shrugged off the shoulder straps to her nightgown, cupping her pert breasts to stop the soft material from sliding any further.

“You are a goddess; power wrapped in all the grace and luxury of the feminine body.”

Heather slid her hands to her belly, letting the cloth drop to expose the tops of her hips. Her breasts were silken perfection, with nipples hardened from the attention. She said nothing, but gazed at me with her emerald eyes. I could see her breasts rise and fall with her shallow breathing.

I felt lightheaded from the strength of my feelings for her.

Then she let the gown fall over her hips and drop to the floor. “Come, touch me.”

As I took a step toward her, she held up her hands to hold me off. “But, you must tell me about it, as if writing for me.”

I understood what she needed, and I began to focus as I leaned in to brush her neck with my lips.

“Your skin is so smooth to my touch,” I whispered against her skin. “I feel you respond in subtle ways; feel your pulse race; smell your sweet scent. It fans my desire like strong wind on flame, and I ache with the need to touch you, to taste you.” I placed my hands lightly on her waist, and she shivered with pleasure. Her eyes closed now as she listened to my voice, focusing on my touch.

“I long to caress every intimate curve, searching for places that give you pleasure.” Heather raised her arms above her head in a gesture of submission, and I slowly drew my hands up her sides, under her breasts, then under her arms.

“My eyes feast on each exquisite detail that makes up the vision before me.” I trailed my fingertips up the undersides of her raised arms and was rewarded with raised flesh and another shiver. I slowly walked behind her, my gaze lingering on the curve of her back and the swells of her hips.

“Your luxurious curves have been neglected for too long.” I massaged my fingertips into the soft, fine hair at the top of her neck, and she lowered her arms to her side, sighing with pleasure. I traced the length of her slender neck, up and down, before settling my hands onto the tops of her shoulders.

I struggled to remain focused; every fiber of my male being screamed. I bought myself more time by gently kissing the back of her neck and kneading the tops of her shoulders. I let my fingers trail along the front of her shoulders, almost touching the tops of her breasts, before focusing on her back.

“By touching you, I celebrate my very life, all that it means to be alive,” I whispered as I gained enough breath. My thumbs trailed down each side of her backbone, while my fingers grasped her sides. My hands came to rest on her hips.

“I am enthralled by the very essence of this pleasure. Words become inadequate, for they cannot express this torrent of love and glowing desire.” Then I felt her begin to tremble. I went to one knee and caressed her perfect bottom, massaging in the most erotic way I could; touching the area around her tailbone before traveling down the outside of her crevice.

“I have to lie down before I fall,” she said in a shaky voice, and I caught a glint of moisture as Heather bent forward and fell onto her bed.

“Heather, you show me a moment’s glimpse of the deepest part of heaven. Show me more,” I pleaded as I touched the backs of her legs, but she rolled onto her back and propped herself up enough to make eye contact. Her lips were parted slightly, breasts rising and falling faster now. But, her gaze was steady and enchanting, filled with desire and satisfaction.

Then, slowly, suggestively, Heather lowered her eyes, and I followed until I was looking at her small mound of golden curls. Blood pounding in my head, I felt unsteady, and was glad I had not stood. She finally parted her legs for me, drawing her knees up to expose her entire womanhood to my hungry stare. Her inner thighs were completed coated with her arousal, and the moisture glistened in the lamplight.

“Nectar,” I breathed. And I watched her slide a finger though her curls, across her glistening lips. The finger dipped into the depths and came away shiny.

“My gift to you.” Heather held her finger out for me, and I closed my mouth over it, licking and sucking it clean.

“Drink.” Heather widened her legs, and I greedily licked my way toward the source. I did not want to miss a drop. I licked each fold to her moans of delight, yet the nectar seemed to replace itself instantly.

I covered her sex completely with my mouth, and sucked gently as my tongue collected as much of her liquid as I could find. Heather cupped my head in both hands, pressing me urgently to her as she shook from the passion and effort.

Using the grip on my head, she moved me away from her blessed fire, making me stand. She released the ache from my pants with deft movements.

“Be gentle,” she breathed, lying back, “even a goddess is fragile.”

It was my turn to tremble as I supported myself above her. I closed my eyes and felt the heat of her closeness. With deliberate care, I entered her, feeling each layer unfold to allow me inside.

I slid deeper and deeper as Heather wrapped her legs around my waist, lifting her hips to meet me. When I was pressed against her, she pulled me tighter and began to slowly move. I was mesmerized by this massage, by the motion of her lithe body. Panting, I struggled to delay my orgasm, the pleasure as sharp as any pain.

“Yes,” she coaxed, and with a straining noise, I exploded into her, penis twitching against her clenched inner muscles. I tried to maintain the pressure and the wondrous feeling, but I felt my emotions and my strength drain out of me with every pulse of my being.

I collapsed onto my elbows and breathed heavily against Heather’s neck as she played with my hair. After a moment, my breathing slowed enough for me to plant kisses against her flawless skin.

“I love the way you worship me,” Heather said with soft sincerity. I kissed the tip of her chin before looking into her eyes.

“I feel like I cannot give you enough.”

“Maybe that is what makes what you give so special,” she smiled. “What I need now is your warm body to sleep against.”

“Nothing would make me more content.” I lifted myself unsteadily, and I felt her insides clutch at me as I gently slid out, as if they were trying to keep me inside. I undressed while she went to the bathroom, and then she curled up next to me under the covers, with one hand lightly cupping me. I had barely closed my eyes in exhaustion before sinking into a deep sleep, but I thought I heard her murmur, “your goddess.”

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I know it was only a dream, but I awoke with an uneasy feeling.

In the random way of dreams, I had been accepting awards for my novel, basking in the praise. Heather was a face in the crowd, beaming with pride; the conscious part of me knew this. Yet as I was up on stage, I did not see her; my moment of glory saddened by loss, and I remember missing her fiercely. As the crowd cheered for me, I cried as if Heather was absent from the room.

The statue in my hand felt warm. Even knowing it should be made of gold, I glanced down and almost dropped it in my surprise. It was a miniature version of Heather, arms raised above her head, naked, and staring at me with sightless eyes of emerald.

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I took comfort in staying close to Heather all morning, touching her as often as I dared. At last, she shooed me out the door, laughing and accusing me of putting off my work.

At the door, she gave me another long and warm hug, and I clung to her like a drowning man clinging to his last chance of salvation.

“It was an amazing weekend.” I had a habit of stating the obvious.

“More excitement than we could hope for in a lifetime,” she agreed, “and the inspiration worked wonders on our art. Go, make more progress. I know I will.” She gave me a gentle push and grinned. “Now stop stalling.”

I turned and jogged down the stairwell before I made myself look any more stricken than I already had. My feelings for Heather had me baffled, for they grew in strength every time I saw her, not progressively, but exponentially. I would not know how to handle myself if things got any more intense than they did last night. I grinned at myself, imagining a heart attack or even my head exploding.

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Even as I finished writing a love scene, I mused at how it paled in comparison to my time with Heather. Nothing I could imagine came close.

When I took a break for a late lunch, I could wait no longer. I grabbed the phone and dialed Heather. I got a system busy.

Odd. I checked to make sure I had not gotten any numbers wrong and dialed again.

System busy.

“What the hell…” I thought about it a moment, and then dialed the operator. I gave her the number and asked her if there were any problems.

“That’s not a working number,” she informed me in a bored voice. I repeated the number, telling her that it had worked earlier this morning.

“Sorry, sir, my system does not show that number as active.”

“Could there be a mistake?” I asked in disbelief. “I promise I talked to a lady just this morning at that number.”

“I don’t know what to say, sir, other than repeat what my system shows. Mistakes can happen, I guess,” she said, doubt clear in her voice. “Let me double check another screen.” I held my breath until she came back online.

“No, sir, the systems match. My system does not show when the status was changed,” she added, trying to be helpful now that she heard the distress in my voice, “but not likely this morning.”

“Okay,” I said mechanically, and hung up. I stared at the phone numbly.What just happened? My thoughts began to race beneath the fog of my disbelief. Even phone companies were made up of people, and hell, everyone knows how odd mistakes can happen when people are involved.

I was almost out the door before I noticed I had no shoes on.Those might help, I thought.

Outside, I hailed a cab before realizing that I could not sit calmly in the backseat, even if some logical part of me stated I would get there faster than on foot. The cab driver probably cussed me, but I waved him off and sprinted around the corner. Dodging through the typical crowds, I hurried along my recently memorized path to Heather’s flat.

I made a choking noise, as I ran up to her building. Her name was no longer listed on the buzzers. I sat down to catch my breath and noticed I was sweating badly. Some part of me said I would not want her to see me in this sorry state.

I buzzed her number, anyway. Nothing.

Waiting until someone opened the door, I hurried inside and up the stairs. Heathers door was slightly opened, and I held my breath as I pushed it.

The door opened wider. I stared in disbelief, and I felt a chill, the cold rush of my soul leaving me. The entire place was empty. As if Heather had never graced this apartment, the walls were bare of her paintings; there was no poster bed, no plush rugs or sexy clothes lying around. I don’t know how long I stood there, not daring to step inside, until a gruff voice sounded behind me.

“You mind?” The squat man brought me from my shock.

“Heather lived here.”

“Yes,” he squinted at me, “you know where she is?”

“I wish I did.” He then shrugged at me, as if to shrug me off and moved past me into the apartment.

“She left it clean but…you here to pay her reletting fee?”

“Oh. You are the landlord.” He must have thought I was a real Einstein. “Did she say anything? Leave any clue?”

This made him turn back to me with his squinty-eyed gaze. “Who are you? She left me a note, but no notice. She running from you or something?”

“Of course not,” I replied indignantly. “We were supposed to meet today.” It was a lame answer, but I realized that was simply my assumption. I had to get away.

My head hurt, my chest hurt. As I wandered toward my place, I saw things I rarely noticed. The clouds racing past the small patches of sky. The fast pace of the people around me. The filth.

It was hard not to lie down on the pavement and cry, or to scream in rage at those uncaring clouds.I…don’t…understand!

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The following days were pure hell. I did not leave my apartment; I did not stop staring at the wall when I wasn’t crying; I did not stop questioning myself.

When I shut my eyes, visions of Heather would force their way into my view, of her laughing or grinning, or worse, of her purring my name with that satisfied expression.

Eventually, I stared at my wrists, envisioning what they would look like with blood coming out of them. The whirlwind of emotions made it impossible to gain any perspective. I had no anchor; I had no focus.

Friend’s and family called, but I put them off. It was madness, and I wallowed in it. There was nothing to save me.

Except time.

Self-preservation systems always seem to kick in, regardless of how far gone a person feels. Soon, I could not mourn any more, as if my tears were shut off at the source. The sharp pain receded behind the desire to end the suffering. Recriminations were buried by the need to feel useful. I went out to get food, and thankfully, my sleep was deep and dreamless.

I resigned to the fact that I would never understand what happened. And I struggled to remember the precious short times without renewing the maelstrom of painful emotions. I remembered Heather telling me to struggle with my emotions, to harness them, and finally, I picked up my pen.

I tried to write out my emotions of loss in a farewell letter to her, but found I could not bring myself to tell her goodbye. Instead, I knew that I would never get over her, never let her go.

Even as my novel was finished, I never stopped thinking about Heather. When a publisher picked me up on a contract, I thought of how pleased she would be. Even in the frustration of working with my editor, I never once forgot about Heather’s laugh or her sexy mannerisms.

And one day, I stared down at the completed manuscript, in all its polish and potency. Something was still missing.

I suddenly smelled Heather’s hair and felt her breathing on my chest as she touched me. The memory grabbed me with an undeniable force, and I felt her small, satisfied movements against my body. I remember what she whispered to me through her smile.

I was suddenly crying, but it felt different. I missed Heather no less, yet there was acceptance and understanding in the way I mourned that loss in my heart. Strangely, there was an undercurrent of joy at having met her, a gratitude that defied all logic. I grabbed a blank sheet of paper to stick behind the title page and wrote:

To Heather, My Mysterious Love, My Muse.

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(c) Copywrited 2005. All Rights Reserved. You may not copy or share this work without my written permission. Please respect creative ownership.