The Muse’s Deception

If she told you she would help you make a masterpiece, would you believe her?

Photo by I.am_nah on Unsplash

I don’t remember her name. Maybe that makes the story less believable — how could you not know the name of the woman who changed your life? — but I knew her only a few short weeks at the height of summer. June was coasting into July when I saw her standing on the shore, her bare feet pummeled by the crash of foamy white waves.

I thought I knew everyone in Sycamore, but seeing her — threads of dark hair tangling from the wind, pale arms stretched at her sides as her yellow dress billowed out around her legs — made me realize with a start how big the world was and how little I really fathomed about it. She was the first mystery to consume my senses.

And that was just from one look. What could she teach me from our gazes locked over drinks and the catch of the day over at the local diner?

Then she turned her head, and that smile of hers knocked the air out of me. It wasn’t even a sunny day — but I still felt my cheeks blaze with heat.

“Are you alone?” I asked, stepping into her sphere, only to realize I could have kicked myself for how I probably came off as an utter idiot.

But her lips widened, the smile indulging me. “I’m not alone anymore, am I?”