The Muse

by Carr, Suzie

  Did everyone turn into an obsessive, compulsive freak when flirting with someone interesting? Did their hearts pump extra hard and their vaginas twitch with such frantic intensity? Was I the only fool too afraid to step into reality and give it a real try?

  How I wanted to be this person in real life, staring at Eva with power, mystery, and intrigue. I wanted to dance on her heart and send her twirling.

  I looked like a clown with all this makeup caked on my face and dressed up like I was ready to hit the Roxy for a dance fest on my own podium above a sea of crazed, drunken idiots below. I tore a piece of paper towel off of the roll and began wiping this ridiculous girl away.

  I wiped so hard, my skin burned. I smeared cold cream on my face to help quicken the process of removing this disappointment from my life. I’d never be this girl anyplace other than in front of my bathroom mirror.

  I hated makeup. I didn’t dress in provocative low-cut shirts unbuttoned down to my boobs. High heels sucked and hurt my feet, and these tight jeans cut into me.

  I was fabulous just as designed, as plain Jane. Who wouldn’t love to be me, the faded flower on the gray wall?

  I continued to rub my skin and question why I couldn’t have been born normal. Why couldn’t I walk around in a pair of high heels without twisting an ankle? Why did makeup make me look like a scary clown?

  What did I expect? After what I did to that poor girl so many years ago, I deserved to look like a clown. I deserved to be easy prey. I deserved to stand alone in my condo and act out fantasies instead of live them.

  Really, with that justification, all the girls that bullied me should also be rotting in their apartments like me instead of living extraordinary lives. They probably married rich men and had three kids a piece who they dressed up in prissy clothes and drove to summer camp in their Mercedes. They probably all got together each weekend for summer block parties on their grandiose decks overlooking the waterfront. They probably had perfect asses, toned thighs and waistlines that didn’t need to be unbuttoned to allow for breathing room. No doubt though, in the far reaches of the night, they, too, succumbed to nightmares of fangs and claws digging at them, torturing them into remembering the pain they caused another human being.

  The longer I stared at my stupid reflection, the more ridiculous I looked. I scrubbed my face down to a raw state, moisturized it, and tossed the used paper towels in the garbage. Then, I tore off the clothes, ignored my pale reflection as I walked past it and put on my typical Friday dress down day outfit – a pair of loose fitting jeans with a long t-shirt underneath a short-sleeved Old Navy one. Just for kicks, I left my hair dangling messy in the ponytail.

  I stole one last glance at myself and shrugged. “It’s not like she’ll know I’m CarefreeJanie.”

  Before walking out of my condo, I hit the spacebar on my laptop and it brightened to life. I logged into Twitter and trickled through my feed, through my mentions and then finally through my direct messages. My heart flipped when I saw her pretty picture next to a new message. Her smile reached out and tugged at my heartstrings.

  “My boss changed plans on me today. I was supposed to video conference in on a meeting with the main branch, but he thinks I should be there instead.” Her message continued. “So, now I’m heading to Maryland to be there in person. I’m going to attempt another try at Old Bay. I’ll let you know what I think.”

  My hands flew up to my parched face in full panic mode. I dropped my head into my lap, waiting for the rest of me to catch up with my heart.

  # #

  I drove in silence, comforted only by the lulls between my engine hums. I pulled into a convenience store to get a pack of gum. I parked and watched a group of teenaged boys and girls prance around each other, laughing, carrying on like awkward, silly kids. The boys wore long hair that fanned in front of their eyes and the girls dressed in black and weaved pink and blue feathers through their choppy hair. A tattoo of an angel with wings draped along one of the girl’s shoulder blades. She flirted with the cuter of the boys, tossing her hips around like they were powered by their own utility substation. This girl certainly didn’t have a shy vibe hindering her.

  How does one go about getting over being shy? How did people just randomly go up to another and strike up a conversation like they’d been talking their whole lives together? What did people say? How did saying hello lead to in-depth discussions on politics or scientific discoveries? Or more importantly, how in the world did saying hello lead to holding hands, making out and snuggling up in front of a fireplace listening to soft jazz, drinking vodka tonics and massaging each other’s sexual libidos?

  How did one go from walking in the front door of a bar to walking down the aisle? Why did others get hit on, but not me? What about me said stay away? I wasn’t downright ugly. I wasn’t beautiful, either. I stood in that in-between space teetering between common and pretty. I was presentable.

  So, why did people pass me by like they passed by a field of growing grass?

  # #

  We always gathered at an offsite location for our quarterly meetings. This time, we met at Dave and Buster’s at the Arundel Mills Mall. My tummy knotted up as I passed through the door and up to the hostess station where Katie stood with a clipboard.

  She rattled me even more these days. Since receiving the community hero award a few weeks prior, Sanjeev invited me to be a part of the discovery team for the sneaker line instead of her. She worked for weeks on buttering him up for this position, preparing detailed presentations on ways they could strategically position the sneakers in international markets. He walked right past her cubicle and straight to mine and asked me to join him and the other twenty in the focus group for a breakfast meeting. I sucked. I never spoke. I sat like a statue and listened to the other focus group members debate and offer their colorful opinions. Katie would’ve been much better suited for the role.

  In the days that followed my induction into this focus group, she raked me over with sneaky glances and extra critical feedback on my copywriting. She also insulted my intelligence by pointing out my mistakes in front of the marketing department at our morning meetings.

  She had taken this too far. I offered to come clean, but she wouldn’t let go of the guilt grip. This angered me.

  Katie stood tall at the hostess station, pumping up her smile. “Excited for your speech?”

  “I should be asking you that question,” I said mirroring her smug smile.

  Her smile widened. “You better believe I am.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t disappoint.” I walked away from her towards the smell of eggs and cinnamon buns and flavored coffee. I entered the big gaming room and the buzz and lights of chaos hit me hard. I hated video games. I hated loud noises. I hated the look of frenzied people yelling at machines for proving them unworthy. I scanned the room looking for Eva. Underdressed, I wanted to kick myself for being so careless in my choice. What if no one else wore jeans? What if these flyaways on my face looked ridiculous? What if I lost my voice to her? The fears poked me like a bully and stole all of CarefreeJanie’s magical wit.

  Doreen landed by my side wearing a loud purple and orange paisley dress. “Hey,” she said in her happy beat. “Are you ready?”

  “Doreen,” I whispered. “I don’t want to be here.”

  She looked me square in the eye. “You’re wearing lip gloss. You’re not going anywhere.” She placed her hand on the small of my back and pushed me onward towards the back of the establishment, to that tall, slender figure standing like a princess in waiting by the side of the buffet table. Eva looked up at me, then back down. My breath stopped short halfway up my throat.

  “That food smells heavenly, doesn’t it?” Doreen asked. “Let’s get some.”

  I wanted to run back to the car. She’d cause a scene if I attempted. I struggled to maintain direction as she pushed me closer to where Eva stood. I massaged my glossed lips together, worrying I had overdone them. “Doreen,” I said, pulling at her dress li
ke a five-year-old. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  She looked down at me. “You don’t look so good.” She cradled my shoulder with her hand.

  I looked back over at Eva. She had scooped eggs onto a small plate for Emily, the eccentric girl in customer service who wore her hair in pigtails most days. They laughed together over something. Eva’s whole face blossomed, her cheeks rising up like sweet plums. Emily tapped her upper arm, lingered on Eva’s toned bicep for a moment too long, and then walked away. Eva continued to smile after her. Jealousy ripped through me – jealousy over a life I’d never experience.

  I could never make Eva Handel laugh and smile like that. “I need to go now.” I shoved off back to the entrance, back to where Katie stood like a martyr. I rushed past her. “Everything okay?” she asked, her words drowning in exaggerated sweetness.

  I waved her off and ran past her to the bathroom.

  # #

  I managed to weave enough activity into my weekend to keep me from poking into Twitter. I went grocery shopping, washed my sheets, cleaned out my garbage disposal, walked my neighbor’s dog, hosed down the wooden steps of the condo, and went to visit my grandmother in the nursing home, where I got roped into playing several songs on the piano. The patients were easy to please and didn’t cause me too much discomfort. They wouldn’t laugh at me or kick my shins as they passed me by on route to get their meds or have their adult diapers changed. They certainly wouldn’t set my parents’ backyard shed on fire for kicks or spray paint obscenities about me on the front door. No, that kind of shit only happened to me when I did stupid things like proclaim how badly I wanted to screw my best friend Barbara over and over again under the canopy of stars in my parents’ backyard hammock.

  By the time I hit the bed on Sunday night, I obsessed about my faults a little less and about the whole meeting ordeal and focused more on how much fun I had that day at the nursing home. A few people smiled because of me that day and that jolted me with some much needed joy. Before dosing off, I sealed in a mental note that I would have to do this more often. My heart lightened as a result.

  I dreamt of Eva’s chocolate brown hair that night. It wrapped around my fingers so easily as I twirled it and stared into her deep, delicious eyes. I woke up caressing my pillow, oddly turned on. I rose out of bed and staggered off to the kitchen for some coffee. The computer teased me from the counter.

  I didn’t want to see her message back because I knew in my most intelligent way that regardless if she flirted back with me or not, I could never face her. So, what would be the point? Why torture myself?

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and sipped it thoughtfully, gazing over at the laptop waiting for a good enough reason not to sit in front of it and just see if she had responded to my last flirt. “Oh, the hell with it.” I rounded the counter, plopped down on the stool and logged in for the ride.

  Her message dangled in front of me like a prism, all sparkly and glistening. “I tried Old Bay again. I’m still not a fan.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I typed back right away. “I must make you a fan.”

  A moment later, she responded. “I’m a fan. Just not of Old Bay.”

  “A fan of what?”

  “Of you. Of your words. Of the way your words entice me.”

  I hugged myself. “Thank you. It’s what I do. I write.”

  “Like a published writer?” she asked.

  Hadn’t she read my lavish bio? “Yup. I’ve had some stuff read by others.” I didn’t totally lie on that one.

  “I’m in awe of writers. I wish I had that talent.”

  “It’s not talent, just hard work. Anyone can write if she puts her mind to it.” I spoke like a real pro, like I owned a bookshelf stuffed with my novels, like I earned a living writing by a dim light in my condo sipping sangria and smoking cigarettes as I pounded the keys on an overworked keyboard.

  “What do you write?”

  Paintbrush in hand, I could create a fun imaginary world full of color and mystique. Who needed to write a novel when one could play out the scenario real time with a real love interest at her fingertips? Perhaps this could be a working novel. A girl falls in love with another girl via Twitter and they live happily ever after in the Twitterverse, tossing each other romantic tweets and creating their life as they pressed the enter key.

  I flicked some color on my imaginary canvas. Perhaps I wrote mystery novels. Of course, that could prove much too difficult if she started asking questions. I flicked my illusionary brush with a deeper color. Perhaps I wrote horror stories. Did I want her to think of me as a deep, dark girl who took pleasure in scaring the shit out of people? I wanted to stir her mind with intriguing thoughts. I stroked my canvas with pretty tones. “I write romantic stories.”

  “Romantic, as in girl-meets-boy, or romantic as in girl-meets-girl (wink)?”

  Oh that wink stirred wonderful things in me, causing my legs to tremble and my nipples to tingle. “Girl-meets-girl of course. That is what you prefer, I hope (wink)?”

  A force outside of my control typed these flirts, a force that grew a garden of flirts that bloomed organically and on cue with when I needed them to blossom so that at any time, I could pluck one up and shower her with its brilliance.

  “I want to read one of your stories. What’s your name so I can look one up?”

  An electric shock zapped me back to my dull condo with its practical lighting and monotone walls. Great job. Open your big mouth. I side-stepped her question on my name. “They’re just short stories in anthology books. I’ll send you something.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  I searched my garden of flirts for something smooth. “Sure. Listen, I’ve got to run. Here’s to us both enjoying a beautiful day.”

  I logged off and the panic drove like shards through me. I deemed nothing I wrote worthy enough for her beautiful eyes. I’d need to rework something. I ignored that I only had thirty minutes to get showered, eat and drive into work. Instead, I ventured into my office and straight to my file cabinet where I saved printouts of everything I ever wrote, including that first and only piece my teacher had praised.

  About thirty minutes into my journey to Jane Knoll short story hell, I realized that all of those letters covering my wall were accurate. My writing sucked and needed some major lift if I ever wanted to see my name in a byline someday. After reading the third sucky story, I called Sanjeev and told him I wasn’t feeling well. I’d be taking a sick day. I needed at the very least eight solid hours to write something that could potentially tickle this girl’s life. I blamed it on my sour stomach from the quarterly meeting.

  Doreen called me not more than five minutes later. “Katie gave your speech.”

  “Did she mess up?”

  “Get this. She acted like the saving grace of marketing. When Sanjeev announced he needed a volunteer because you had gotten sick, she stepped right up and acted like she had just forfeited her seat on one of the lifeboats of a sinking ship.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “Sanjeev winked at her.” She said this like I would be heartbroken. “She joined him and the new events manager for lunch after that. She came back afterwards and told me that Sanjeev invited her to be on the advisory board committee.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Don’t be jealous.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not jealous.”

  “She’s got nothing on your talents.”

  If only she knew how untrue that was. “Thanks, my friend. Listen, I’ve got to run. I’m still not feeling great.”

  Thirty minutes later, still sitting on my couch contemplating my story, I decided I’d procrastinated enough. I stood, stretched and cleaned my bathtub, folded my clothes, and hoped an answer would just sweep into my brain and take it on a pleasant journey through the lives of two people falling in love.

  By noon, and with my hands resembling the finer side of a pumice stone from scouring the tiles in my bathroom, I began pacing my co
ndo in search of an idea. I folded my hands behind my back and willed a plotline to come pouring down on me. I passed by my magazine rack several times and finally dropped down on my knees in front of them and started scanning them for ideas.

  I picked up Reader’s Digest and breezed through the table of contents. A girl named Betty Lou Summers wrote a short piece called “My Little Secret” about a housekeeper’s diary. I couldn’t imagine how many times Ms. Betty Lou Summers must have jumped around her living room when she first saw her story published in Reader’s Digest. I would have broken a leg for sure.

  I picked up Mademoiselle and scanned the articles about fashion, about dating, about kissing, about picnicking, about friendships, and panicked some more. What did I know about any of these topics and how would I ever tie them to romance?

  What place did I have writing about any of them, especially kissing?

  I needed to live these things. I needed to experience them. I needed to understand literally and figuratively what it felt like to hold someone, breathe in someone, and fall in love with someone.

  I needed wine.

  I lifted the key to Larry’s condo off of my key hook and hunted for some sweet red wine. In addition to scoring an open bottle, I also took off with a bag of Doritos and a half eaten sleeve of thin mints. I needed inspiration. I prepped to launch into my most important writing. I needed this to shine. I needed this to dig deep. I needed Eva to reply back with more exclamation points than words.

  I drank two glasses of the wine, ate half the bag of Doritos and two of the thin mints before I finally took out my kitchen timer, sat down at my laptop and stared at the blank white screen. Before setting the timer, I needed a jumpstart – a word, a sentence, anything to get the fingers typing for ten solid minutes without critique. I drummed my antsy fingers against the counter and stared at my reflection in the toaster oven. I traced my finger down the side of my face, imagining Eva’s featherlike touch. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, seeking that sweet spot of peace.

  I imagined Eva coaxing me with her soft voice, urging me to write something sweet and romantic. Her eyes would follow my fingers as I typed, mesmerized by their ability to follow my mind’s lead. She would lean in close, bathing me in her pure light, erasing all traces of fears and insecurities.