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The Muse Behind the Mask
He was worth more than gold, silver, and gems.
I won’t lie to you: it’s true that most muses are women. Those are just the facts. I won’t get into semantics with you, but the gods preferred their female creations to the males. Zeus had always had a hankering that way.
I will say one thing: my muse is a lady killer. He’s inspired me to write hundreds of things — songs, poems, and stories to name just a few — and to say I wouldn’t be an artist without him is just one of those things I have to accept.
He’s the kind to hang onto the periphery of things. He invited me to a gallery opening for one of his other artists; she was a petite thing with lavender hair falling in waves across her shoulders. His smile for her was all too fond. Something like jealousy stirred within me, but I managed to choke down the bitterness.
Muses couldn’t be claimed. That’s one of the rules straight from the gods’ mouths themselves.
I’ve had a difficult time accepting this law of the universe, but so it is. My string of exes always seemed lackluster compared to my muse. But he couldn’t be kept or caged: he was a jet-setter who visited me maybe once every few months. Sometimes I would go out with him to the bar and buy him a drink. That was the extent of our relationship with all the careful…
