Wednesday 22 February 2012

Muse


I’m not angry. The man of my dreams has not just walked out on me, my tears have not just blackened my cheeks with mascara, and the mirror has not just bluntly shown me how I really look. I am not angry, I’m sorry. I just can’t write.
***

  They had agreed to hang out together that day but it was mainly to catch up on work. It was only the two of them when they arrived at the open-air café. For a few hours, she was actually having a very refreshing afternoon; sitting in the sun on a comfortable couch, sipping an ice-cold pina colada, smoking an intoxicating coconut-flavored hookah and sitting next to the man who not only seemed to be the man of her dreams, but the manifestation of her dreams in a man.

  They had just recovered from a big fight but she didn’t doubt for a second that she was going to give their relationship another try. She was sitting right next to him, but he didn’t ask her opinion when he edited his short story for the contest. Her eyeliner was perfectly painted over her eyelids but he didn’t look her straight in the eye. Her skin was musky-scented but he didn’t put his arm around her. Her fingers were decorated with beautiful rings but he didn’t hold her hand.

   He was the only man who brought out the writer in her, who saw the female in her, the optimist and the dreamer. He was the first to admire her intellect and then her sexuality, her sarcasm and then her humor. He saw her from an angle she didn’t know existed.

   It is so foolish of him to think that the small talk would cover up the fact that he is hiding something. It’s an omen that he isn’t letting it all out like he usually does. I know he’s sitting right next to me, but he’s just not here. The writer in him isn’t being articulate today, the naughty guy isn’t flirting with me, the poet isn’t looking at me and describing how beautiful I look, the friend isn’t talking about his day, the thinker has abandoned teasing my brain, and instead we’re just talking about our work.

  They made their way through working for a few hours and eating lunch. But he was holding back what he was really feeling and she wasn’t sure what to ask him. So, she was waiting for him to come out with it, because, just like the short stories he wrote, he was being very hard to read.

  The sun was setting, putting an end to a beautiful day, but she was hoping the evening would have something good in store for her

 “I want to be a writer more than anything in the world,” he said.

“You know, this might be shocking to you, but I actually don’t mind having a child outside wedlock. I think that’s how much I don’t mind not having a wife but I would really like to have a child”

“You know my grandfather was a writer, he got married more than once but he always ended up divorced”
“I think it’s because my mom left my dad”

“I’ve lived alone since I was 15. When my dad used to go to work and I would have a cold, I used to make soup for myself. I don’t think I can actually have a long-term partner”

 Sitting on his right, she had one leg over the other and was looking over at him, in awe,as if watching him perform .They were no longer having a conversation .She had nothing to add to his list of why he thought she couldn’t and shouldn’t be in his life. Every time he said something it tore her pride because he was making her wonder whether or not he was really breaking up with her. Because- he- had- her-sit- there -listen –to-why-she –didn’t- fit- in -his –life, and yet he acted as if he were simply talking about himself.

“By the way, I’m leaving in a little while. I can’t wait till I get home to be alone and read and write all night”
  So he left her alone in the café to go enjoy his solitude, and so, for her, he didn’t just leave –like all the other men had. He left her behind.
 
  It was as if the space he had occupied when he was with her was automatically filled with descending words, emotions, and anger. She couldn’t contain herself, she needed to outpour her overflowing self before it all evaporated. She frantically searched for a pen and a paper. And under the dimmed lights of the café, amongst the chatter and laughs of the couples surrounding her, in the midst of the loud music, she managed to seclude herself. She was trying to transform her feelings into words. She was racing with her own brain, because if she didn’t write fast enough she wouldn’t be able to capture the muse that had temporarily possessed her.
 ***
 

Different people, different places, but nothing has changed. You need to vent, you smoke. You need to vent, you write. You need a relief. You walk away doubting that tomorrow is actually the future...

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