Finding my Muse

"'Fairy'..."

"Whatever it was you were talking about a while back in bed. I think you were falling asleep."

"A muse?"

"No, I don't think it's amusing."

"No, Chris. Muse. A muse."

"What? Are you drunk, Jules?" Are you drunk, Chris?

"A muse. Something or someone who inspires you."

"Me?"

"Yes. You." Idiot.

– Juliet pulled into the parking lot and couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that shrouded her. She looked around the park and tried to remember if she'd told Michael that this was the same park in which Chris had proposed to her two and a half years earlier. She parked next to his car – the only other car in the parking lot – and spotted him near a line of trees in the distance, the case of his cello lying on the ground next to the picnic table he was seated at.

"How is this making it up to you?" she asked, approaching him, a notebook in one arm and a small lunch bag in the other.

"Come to think of it, I'm not sure," he replied, mindlessly taking her hand in his and pulling her down to the bench next to him.

"What's the cello for?"

"A nice afternoon serenade."

Juliet laughed, "I think I heard it was supposed to rain."

"In that case," he said, pulling a bottle of Coke from his lunch bag, "I guess we'll just have to go back to my place." –

I'll never forget the first time that he'd played for me. For me.

He apologized for not being able to keep the library open for the evening and since he was canceling his evening class on account of a surprise snow storm, he offered to give me a ride over to his home which I graciously took. Normally, I took the bus or the train, but I hated taking public transportation in bad weather because it was always crowded and slow and I certainly didn't have a warm home to go home to as Chris was in Florida or Texas or somewhere that wasn't bogged down with snow for the week.

Michael braved the roads and we drove the ten miles to his quaint little home in a historic part of town. He apologized about the size and said he was embarrassed that he lived in such a small house. I thought it was adorable and perfect – far superior to the cold and modern condo I lived in located in the middle of downtown. He led me inside, taking my gloved hand in his own. It was no more than twenty steps from the car to his front door, but somehow the swirling snow managed to coat our hair and coats with watery droplets. My jeans and his were soaked to the knee from the snowdrifts outside the music building and the sidewalk leading up to his house.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked as soon as we had stepped inside.

"Tea?" I suggested as he pulled my coat from my shoulders and unraveled the scarf from my neck.

"No prob. Have a seat in here," he offered me his sofa and I gladly, and quickly, made myself at home in his living room. "If you want to set up your laptop, feel free."

I admired his living room, there was a sleek, black, upright piano on the far wall and floor-to-ceiling bookcases on the sofa's wall and the wall across from it. He had two guitars, a sizable sheet music collection piled in a basket next to the coffee table that was accented with classical and jazz music books. A small fireplace sat on the other side of the room and the mantle was decorated with pictures of what I could only assume were family and friends.

"Sugar? Honey? Milk?"

"No thanks."

He brought me a hot mug of tea, even the mug matched the rest of the room.

"How cute are you?" I exclaimed without even thinking twice. He practically choked on his own tea and laughed out loud at my remark.

"Sorry..." I mumbled, feeling my face burning bright red.

"I mean, I know; quite adorable."

I laughed this time, "Shut up."

We joked back and forth for a few more minutes. I asked him about the pictures over his fireplace, some of the books on the bookshelves and a particularly striking abstract painting that hung over the couch. I marveled at how easy it was to just sit there and talk to him about nothing of great importance.

"It's really coming down out there," I said, turning towards the window. The snow was so heavy I couldn't even see the street in front of his house. I set my tea down on the table and started up my laptop.

"You cold?" he asked.

"I..." I looked down at the cold, wet jeans clinging to my shins and nodded. "Chilly, I guess."

"Feel free to grab a pair of dry pants," he said, nodding towards the hallway.

I chuckled and shook my head, "Where am I going to get pants?"

"I'm sure I have a pair of sweatpants that will fit you," he said. "Down the hall, second door on the right."

"Seriously?"

"Yes! Go."

Nervously, I stood and made my way down the hall taking a little time to admire the small pieces of art that hung on the walls: landscape and musical photography.

"You take these?" I called back towards the living room, stopping at a particularly striking image of a naked knee against the curve of a cello.

"A couple of them are of me." I couldn't help but outline that naked knee in the photo. I didn't know whether or not it was actually him but I could certainly imagine that it was.

I turned at the second door and pushed my way into the dark room. My hand grazed over the wall next to the door, searching for the light switch. When I finally found and flicked it on, a soft glow spilled throughout the room, accenting a dreamy, abstract painting of a blue-green seascape that hung over the matching bed. The room was immaculately clean. The bed was made, the two nightstands on either side of the bed were tidy – one had an aged book sitting on top, the other held a small light and alarm clock. There was a closed closet on one side of the room and a large dresser that matched the nightstands and bed on the other.

"Which drawer?" I called, walking to the dresser.

"Bottom."

I opened the bottom drawer and perfectly folded inside were three pairs of pajama pants and a small stack of cotton t-shirts. I grabbed a pair of plaid pants and quietly closed the door of the bedroom. As I replaced my damp jeans with the warm, soft cotton pajama pants, I distinctly heard the faint tuning of a cello from the living room. The deep, resonating notes rang through my chest. My stomach sank and I felt myself go weak in the knees. If he could throw me head over heels with a few tuning notes of a cello what could he do with his hands? His lips?

"What are we going to do about this snow?" I asked as I returned to the living room.

"Have plans?"

"Not really..."

"I'm not going to kick you out," he said, running his bow over the strings of his instrument. My knees practically buckled underneath me and I closed my eyes as a surge of musical lust passed through me.

"I just..."

"You're not turning into a snow woman on my watch," he joked. Another effortless chord flowed from his instrument and I had to sit down in the armchair across from the couch. "Any special requests?"

"Anything."

He chuckled and launched into the saddest rendition of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" that I had ever heard. I laughed and shook my head.

"Maybe not anything," I said with a smile. "Something a bit more...classical."

"Well. Why didn't you say so?" He cleared his throat and began to play a minor tune. I couldn't place it and despite it's minor key it wasn't particularly sad. It was, however, enchanting to my ears, my heart and my mind. Words flowed through my head and I grinned foolishly and quickly sat at the coffee table and began to write.

– He pulled her into his car as the rain started to pour. Thunder and lightning crashed through the treetops and Juliet couldn't help but wonder if the bad weather was a sign from somewhere above.

"Is the cello okay?" she asked him, glancing towards the backseat.

"That case could survive a missile strike," he replied. "A bit of rain won't do a thing."

"It's really coming down out there," she turned her gaze to the window and the water rolling down the glass in long, wide rivers. "So much for making it up to you."

"The afternoon isn't over yet."

She turned to face him, a quizzical look in her eyes and couldn't help but smile just a little.

"You didn't get to play for me."

"Not yet."

"I don't think even the most talented musician can play in the driver's seat of a car."

"You can be my instrument."

Juliet muffled a laugh with her hand and quickly shook her head, "I should probably go home..."

"No. C'mon."

She turned her head as another bolt of lightning struck nearby and she sighed with defeated resignation. "What can I do?"

"Back to me," he directed. She turned in her seat and looked over her shoulder expectantly. He lifted the arm rest dividing the two of them and moved closer to her. Her breath caught slightly as his hand waved past her ponytail.

"Now what?"

"Arm up." She lifted her right arm. "Other arm." She smiled and shook her head and lifted her left arm.

"Then you do the hokey pokey..."

"Lean back a little."

She leaned back and felt her stomach drop the moment her shoulders hit his chest. Her breath shallowed the second a warm draft from his exhale hit her cheek.

"Now..." the tips of his fingers tiptoed along the soft underside of her arm, up to her elbow and wrapped around her wrist. "I play."

"I don't follow," she said, her chest rising and falling quickly on account of the intimate closeness.

He quietly exhaled against the bottom of her ear and slowly dragged his index finger across her stomach, humming softly as he did so. She couldn't help but laugh as he did and when his fingers danced their way up her arm, she curled the limb around the back of his neck and relaxed into him as he played her. –

"Is it any good?"

Startled, I left the car of my fantasies and found myself sitting where I had left off – his living room coffee table. I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times for good measure.

"The music?"

"Your novella."

"Sure hope so," I replied. I stretched my legs and arms and arched my back over the seat of the couch. How long had I been writing? One hour? Two? I glanced to the clock below the TV and shook my head. Certainly it couldn't already be eight o'clock?

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"I... Is your clock broken?"

"No."

"Shit. How am I going to get home?"

"Where do you live?"

"Downtown."

He chuckled and shook his head, "You're not getting home tonight."

My eyes widened and even though I knew Chris was out of town, I could only imagine him trying to call the phone at home wondering where I was. I panicked for a second, wondering what I would tell him when he inevitably started searching for me via cell phone. I nervously chewed on a fingernail and turned to Michael, sitting comfortably on the couch.

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not."

"Where will I sleep?"

"Wherever you want." I had to smile at his answer; it was so typical of him – not assuming anything.

"I am hungry."

He fixed the two of us a simple dinner of chicken with a side of vegetables and a salad. He offered me a beer, but the smell of beer had become too close an association with Chris so I avoided it. He turned on the television while I watched the snow continue to fall outside the window. I wondered if there would be school the next day. I wondered if Chris would run into delays on his flight back home.

"Can I read it?" Michael asked.

I turned my head towards him and glanced towards the coffee table. I had stupidly forgotten to close the windows and the laptop itself. I quickly hit save and closed everything down. It wasn't until I closed everything down that I realized the alternative had been better. I closed everything down so infrequently, I had forgotten that the desktop picture was an image of Chris and me on vacation in the Florida Keys from two years earlier.

"Fuck," I mumbled as I scrambled to open up another window.

"That's Chris?"

"Yep."

Michael leaned back into the cushions of his sofa and made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat.

"Are you using me?" he asked, eyes narrowed – though I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was likely joking.

"What?" I feigned indignation and scoffed at the question, though in the back of my head my mind raced.

"You didn't ever tell me what the story is about."

"Sure I did. It's about me."

"About you. What about you?" I narrowed my eyes at him. "Is it about a particularly enthralling trip to the symphony? Is it about your wasted dreams to become a cellist? Or..."

"Don't."

"Is it about your doomed relationship?"

I quickly snapped the laptop closed and folded my arms across my chest. It wasn't something that I liked – or wanted – to admit. I'd settled into such a niche of complacency with Chris that I had completely abandoned the notion of being in a nurturing, intimate relationship.

"And you have a fix to that?"

"I'd like to think I can help," he replied, inching closer to where I sat.

I thought about everything that I had written so far and turned to meet his gaze while trying to keep any tears from forming in my eyes.

"And if you already have?"

He lifted his arm up over the back of the couch, his hand dangerously close to the unkempt tendrils of hair that hung around my ears.

"Let me read it."

I felt myself leaning closer to him and with a coy smile, I bit my lip and shook my head. "Never."

"In that case..." his fingertips danced lightly against the side of my neck. My breath caught and without thinking twice, I ran my tongue over my bottom lip. "I'll have to assume."

I closed my eyes as his hand swept along my jaw and I gladly allowed him to part my lips with the tip of his thumb. I fell towards him even further, my head dizzy and swimming with classical music. He met me before I completely fell into him and pressed his lips firmly against mine. I closed my eyes tightly and tried to keep my bearings about me. Suddenly, I didn't care about anything. I didn't care about the snow storm, I didn't care about Chris and I didn't even care about the story. All I wanted was that kiss. That head-spinning, stomach plummeting, utterly dooming kiss.

– "I need to see your I.D."

Juliet startled and stared at the teenage girl sitting at the reference desk as if she had two heads.

"Where's Michael?"

"You mean, Professor Davis?"

"Yes, Davis. Michael..."

"Personal business of some sort. Didn't say. I'm filling in. Lame. I.D.?"

"Oh, um..." Juliet began to rifle through her purse and stopped. "I think I forgot it at home."

"No I.D., no entry." –

His fingers traced the curve of my hip and had I not been watching him, I would have thought it was nothing but a breeze or a stray feather from the pillow under the small of my back.

"Are you cold?"

"No," I breathed, even though his fluttering touch made the hair of my arms and legs stand on end and the cool touch of his breath against my bare breasts made my nipples stand at attention.

"You sure?" he nuzzled his head against my shoulder and swooped down to encircle his tongue around the erect nub. I gasped and moaned softly in response to the unexpected touch and my hips rose and fell as his hand passed over my stomach.

"Michael..."

He made a soft humming noise against my skin which reverberated down to the depths of my heart. I sighed, closed my eyes, buried my nose in the top of his head and inhaled deeply. He smelled sweet and musky – coconut, winter air, snow, sweat and sex.

"I don't know how the story ends."

"Maybe it shouldn't."

I smiled and quietly laughed, "I think I'm stuck."

"How could you be?" he raised his head from my naked torso and propped himself up with an elbow. "After all this. I would think your head would be swimming."

"It is." He smiled and I closed the space between us and planted my lips firmly against his.

– "Where were you?" Juliet asked.

"Auditioning."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't want to jinx it, I guess."

"I would have wished you luck. Or 'break a leg' or whatever's good luck for a cellist."

She started up her computer. It was the first time she'd written in a week on account of his mysterious absence. Being denied access to the music library and being away from Michael had killed her drive to write anything.

"How'd you do?" she asked.

He shrugged and lowered his voice, "Can I ask you a question?"

Her forehead furrowed and her eyes narrowed slightly. The tone of his voice was serious and there was something about it that unnerved her.

"Of course."

"Do you believe..." he shook his head. "It's silly."

"No, go."

"You believe in a muse?"

Her fingers stilled against the keyboard keys and she looked him squarely in the eyes.

"Without a doubt." –

"Baby, where are you?" Chris' tinny, distant voice over the phone felt as far away as could be. I deleted his voicemail and retreated back under the covers of Michael's warm bed.

"Who called?"

"Who do you think?"

Michael encircled me with his arms, pulled me close and enveloped my legs with his own. He then asked, "Does he do this to you?"

"What? Feign intimacy?"

"I'm not feigning anything."

I sighed loudly and pressed my back into Michael's chest. The trail of coarse hair down his stomach tickled the small of my back and the stubble on his chin scratched my shoulder, but I could care less.

"I can't remember the last time I had sex," I admitted.

"With the exception of three hours ago."

I laughed, "Of course."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Half the time he comes home, he's been out at a bar or a strip club."

"The other half?"

"He's too tired, I'm too tired. Fuck, I think we all fall into that cycle eventually."

"Then why are you here right now?"

I rolled over to face him and slid a leg between his. While tickling the hair on his lower abdomen, I playfully nibbled at his lower lip and whispered, "Because you inspire me."