Member-only story
The Muse That Got Away
Did you think she’d stay forever?
I penned my best work when she was in the other room. She would sleep in long after I woke up with the sunrise, but I never disturbed her. I would shuffle quietly in my slippers from room to room, collecting coffee and grabbing the newspaper before I settled in front of the typewriter. Every critic called me old-fashioned for my little quirks. It didn’t matter. I had become a master craftsman for all my peculiar ticks that would have driven anyone else insane.
By the time she awoke, I would have a chapter finished and another to be edited. The small stack of pages would sit beside me like a companion. But I never began my next steps until I felt her hands settle along my shoulders, fingertips lightly prying at the fabric, before I glanced back to find her staring down at me. Her face was often still smudged by sleep’s touch.
“Hello, my darling,” I would say, and her lips would curve in that particular way that always left my heart quickening its pace in response. Sometimes I would lift a hand to her face and caress her cheek. Other times, if I was engrossed in my work, I would pat one of her hands and wait for her to peck a kiss against my head before she sauntered off to another area of the house.
