Muse For Hire

Seventy-four.  That's how many ceiling tiles hang above the sofa in my muse's office--excluding the partials.  I know because I counted them.  Repeatedly.  Perhaps my time would have been better spent giving this creative spirit a name.

"And how does that make you feel?" she asked.

"Maybe you should ask Jake that question."

My muse thinks she's a psychiatrist!

"Why?"

"Because he's the one you killed."  I found her wry grin more than a little disconcerting.  "You're all heart, aren't you?"

"Jake wasn't real, Jeff.  You really need to get a better handle on differentiating these things."

"I'm getting better."  Of course.  She always answers my claims of progress with silence.  The woman really does think she's part psychiatrist.  "I didn't resurrect Brian, did I?"

"Brian never even spoke a line of dialog, Jeff."

"Your point?"

"The point, Jeff, is it wasn't much of a sacrifice to keep him dead."

I kept my eyes level and focused on hers.  "You know, I do have a real psychiatrist."

"And what did she say about Brian?"

"He," I corrected.  "Less than he had to say about you."

"I can imagine.  Did you tell him I'm attractive?"

"I'm married!"

"Doesn't mean I'm not attractive."

"It means I know better than notice."  That impish smile of hers always beckons trouble.

Can you trust a muse for hire?

"Well, I still say your story was better off with Jake dead."  The timer dinged.  "Already?  My, where does the time go?  You're always so much fun to work with, Jeff.  Same time next week?"

I rose from the couch and loosed a resigned sigh as I grabbed the door knob.  "Of course."

"Oh, tell your friends I'm running a special.  You get a free consultation for each new client you bring me."

My breath caught the moment I realized I'd called her a sadist aloud.  What on Earth did I just do?

"Maybe you are making progress," she said with her widest grin yet today.  Leaning forward, she dropped a few business cards into my hand.  "Here, make sure you give them these."