He pushed the button.
Silence.
He waited.
Not a sound, only the echo of his own nervous breathing.
He'd try again later.
In his head, she had the aura of a dream with the demeanour of a vixen. Something like an angel who had transcended goodness, what with all the piercings on her face and ears contradicted by her bright eyes.
But that was just the artist in him being romantic. In reality, she was just another muse.
His easel stared back at him, blank and lonely, reflecting his mental state without her.
He picked up his phone and flipped through her pictures. Has he ever "missed" a muse?
Was she just another muse?
It seemed insulting for him to think so.
He walked back to his kitchen, to the phone and hit redial again.
Still, no answer. Not even a dial tone.
It obviously wasn't okay to just go over there yet. It had been just a month since they met, and he had dropped her home just once, but never went upstairs or even close to the door. In fact, he even remembered her talking about some man or the other.
He was still dying to go. She was definitely more than a muse.
He tried her cellphone. It rang, and rang, and rang, and went to her voicemail.
*BEEP* and he hung up. How needy it would be to actually leave a voice message. He went back into his room. She hadn't contacted him for days. He wanted her around all the time, and she didn't even seem to care.
*KNOCK KNOCK*
Ah! There she is! Must've just lost her phone, or maybe she had been travelling and left it at home...
He hurried excitedly to the door, and then suddenly slowed down. From window, he saw postman.
At 4 p.m.? How odd. With a puzzled look he opened the door, "And how can I help you, sir?"
"You are l'artiste American? Parlez-vous français?"
"Oui. Je suis un Parisien."
"Ah, bonsoir. Cette lettre... est pour toi."
The address was scribbled in her writing, and he opened it gently, barely noticing the postman leave.
He stared blankly at it for what felt like 20 minutes right there at his door.
He looked up at the empty, blank, lonely street. Another reflection, another paralleled travesty of his life.
Finally, tears began to fill into his eyes. Of rage, of futility, of helplessness, and of reality.
He looked at his easel, blank and lonely, reflecting what was permanent at the time.
The paint on his palette had all but dried, and there was never any paint on his brush to begin with.
She had run away with some man, and either way, she was never his to begin with.
Silence.
He waited.
Not a sound, only the echo of his own nervous breathing.
He'd try again later.
In his head, she had the aura of a dream with the demeanour of a vixen. Something like an angel who had transcended goodness, what with all the piercings on her face and ears contradicted by her bright eyes.
But that was just the artist in him being romantic. In reality, she was just another muse.
His easel stared back at him, blank and lonely, reflecting his mental state without her.
He picked up his phone and flipped through her pictures. Has he ever "missed" a muse?
Was she just another muse?
It seemed insulting for him to think so.
He walked back to his kitchen, to the phone and hit redial again.
Still, no answer. Not even a dial tone.
It obviously wasn't okay to just go over there yet. It had been just a month since they met, and he had dropped her home just once, but never went upstairs or even close to the door. In fact, he even remembered her talking about some man or the other.
He was still dying to go. She was definitely more than a muse.
He tried her cellphone. It rang, and rang, and rang, and went to her voicemail.
*BEEP* and he hung up. How needy it would be to actually leave a voice message. He went back into his room. She hadn't contacted him for days. He wanted her around all the time, and she didn't even seem to care.
*KNOCK KNOCK*
Ah! There she is! Must've just lost her phone, or maybe she had been travelling and left it at home...
He hurried excitedly to the door, and then suddenly slowed down. From window, he saw postman.
At 4 p.m.? How odd. With a puzzled look he opened the door, "And how can I help you, sir?"
"You are l'artiste American? Parlez-vous français?"
"Oui. Je suis un Parisien."
"Ah, bonsoir. Cette lettre... est pour toi."
The address was scribbled in her writing, and he opened it gently, barely noticing the postman leave.
He stared blankly at it for what felt like 20 minutes right there at his door.
He looked up at the empty, blank, lonely street. Another reflection, another paralleled travesty of his life.
Finally, tears began to fill into his eyes. Of rage, of futility, of helplessness, and of reality.
He looked at his easel, blank and lonely, reflecting what was permanent at the time.
The paint on his palette had all but dried, and there was never any paint on his brush to begin with.
She had run away with some man, and either way, she was never his to begin with.
 |
| Words of a Muse. |
Men, I tell you.
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