He rose from the bed, slipped on some boxers and sat at his computer, having been left idle if such an occasion had arisen. He needed to always be at the ready, waiting, utilizing his surrounding, in hopes of gaining back what he had begun to think was infinitely lost.
It had been more than months since putting fingers to the keyboard, and having the inclination to type words, being able to produce something he might have been proud of. He had started many things but could never work through the intricate web of plots and characters in order to finish. Always floundering or losing the nerve to write. It might have been the lack of sales of his previous novel, or the dissolution of his relationship, or... hell, he had lost his muse, the creative ember in his soul that occasionally sparked and flared, burning just a little bit brighter, whispering in his ear.
But he could hear it now. That whisper, beckoning for him to press the keys; it had a story it wanted to be written. He could close his eyes and envision it all laid out before him. Normally, he might have been considered a plotter, taking his time, making notes, and starting something fresh only when he had most of the bones, the skeleton of the novel, outlined. He would have pondered over his characters until they had begun to feel like friends. Until he knew everything there was to know about them; planning elaborate back-stories, giving them parts of himself like quirks and personal traits, making them unique, and perhaps, overly complex. And he'd scour the internet or magazines until he could see in his mind's eye the scenery that would set the stage; details like month and time of year. He'd know, before setting out, if it was to snow, covering the landscape with a dusting of powder, or if the pavement was scorching hot, the air humid and suffocating. Particulars would have been worked out to the finest detail.
This time, though, he didn't give himself the chance to overwork the proposal that was developing. He clearly could hear, and feel, what it wanted, and so without further thought, only pausing to inhale one last deep breath of air, he allowed the voice to take over.
It had been a warm October day, but within the air you could smell a hint of the impending snow that was soon to come over the horizon. The leaves on the trees had turned from luscious and vibrant greens to tinged with oranges and browns. They hung wary against limbs, as a breeze circled around their stumps and on the branches, causing a few more to flutter to the ground. Kids had begun to rake them up, jumping into the piles. The thin, crisp foliage rustled with a scratch that grated on ears but was overshadowed by laughter. He wrote.
A girl, with a natural, unabashed beauty, hurried down the pavement, her heels clicking against the concrete sidewalk. Long legs made way to sensual curves, an hour glass figure accentuated by a few extra pounds she might have been carrying. But it would go mostly unnoticed to anyone. Because the buttons on her jacket were tight, straining the fabric against her well-endowed chest, a part of her she wished could have been different. It tended to be what men noticed first, second and third, perhaps even fourth in comparison to her other features, concentrating on only that. But her long mahogany hair swayed against her back with each step she took. The subtle qualities of her imperfect skin tone, blemishes of red cheeks, pale and thin lips, and a nose with a slight crook in the bridge, may have lacked slightly in attractiveness. But that had been made up for by her lustrous blue eyes. The shade of cornflowers spanning a field in the summer sun, glistening with drops of dew. They were large orbs, framed by long eyelashes and manicured eyebrows. That should have always been the first thing that was noticed about her. How they always seemed to be consumed with emotion and desire.
Ethan smiled proudly at what he had typed, but didn't dare stop for fear of losing her. He was worried one misstep would take the entire moment and shatter the perfect image he had just created; a woman that should have been beautiful, that was beautiful to him. She may have lacked self-esteem and wore her timidity out in the open. But there was something missing. Eventually, when he was over a dozen pages in, it clicked, and he knew what it was.
As she worked, cleaning the counters, wiping down the espresso machine and mopping the floors, a gentle lullaby could be heard passing through her lips. She hummed a tune, added words, letting the inner music she heard become her soundtrack. It made the time pass, and today, her day-off, needed a little extra to get her through another long shift. The idea of a few more hours and extra tips was something she couldn't turn down; having an eye on a set of new watercolours at the local art store. Not to mention, she was reliable. She couldn't say no. No matter how much she would have liked to stay curled up in a down-filled blanket, a book in her hand, or sitting at her easel with paint in her hair...
Finally, it was closing time, and she was sure she'd never felt more exhausted in her life. The flow of constant customers never really seemed to die down, everyone rushing into the cafe for a cup of coffee to warm their soul.
She had just walked towards the window, finally ready to flip the sign, officially ending her workday, when the door breezed open, the tiny bell overhead chiming.
"I'm sorry, we're closed," she said, looking to her left, in the direction of the door.
"What? No. You can't be, not yet." The stranger lifted his arm, revealing a watch. "It's still five to nine."
She heaved a sigh. "Maybe your watch is slow?"
He laughed. "It's not. And I swear I wouldn't be in here unless it was an emergency."
"An emergency?" Walking towards the stranger, she marveled at how tall he was. Even with her heels, he had at least three inches on her. He wore black dress pants, a blue shirt, and a black coat over top.
"Yes, you see, I just have to have a latte. My life depends on it."
This caused her to laugh. "That might be true, but I've already closed up the till."
Taking a step forward, he came more into the light, a frown playing on his lips. "You would seriously do that? Deny a dying man his last wish?" Then he said, "What's your name?"
There was a nametag, pinned to her shirt, resting over her heart, and yet, he hadn't seemed to notice it. He was looking at her. Really looking at her, and not the parts of her body she would cover up if she could.
Ethan hesitated. What was her name? He typed a few out, but then deleted them promptly, none of them sounding quite right, or fitting the character he imagined, not suiting her. Then, he heard another whisper. So close, breath touching his ear, that he turned to look behind him, sure there must have been someone standing over his shoulder. It felt that real. And then he knew.
"Lilah. My name's Lilah.”
He held out his hand. "My name's Chris."
When his hand touched her, she felt a tingle shoot up her arm but was unable to tear her eyes away from him, captured by his gaze. Eyes the color of the autumn leaves outside. Yellow and brown tinged, with hints of green clinging to them. She was enticed by the shape of his mouth, and lips; a slight grin playing on them. His hair was cut short, and Lilah wondered if it was as soft to the touch as it looked, resisting the urge to reach out and feel him.
"Well, Lilah, what if I offer to buy you a latte, too? Would that get me one?"
How could she say no? There was something that wedged itself into Lilah’s heart, and she knew, if she turned him away, she might always regret it. Things happened for a reason, Lilah believed, and she had to go with her gut and take a chance. Risking the unknown.
Satisfaction curled a smile on his face. This was what Lilah wanted. His character, she wanted a love story. More than a love story. And he continued to write, the next hours passing without thought as he found he was just as enthralled with the romance that had begun to form, eager to see what would happen next. She needed not only a handsome man, but someone that would sweep her off her feet. Taking the time to worship her. Ethan had been that kind of guy once, but he lost himself along the way. He didn't think he could ever be the kind of man Lilah needed and it killed him a little, even if she wasn't real.
Three dates with Chris had passed by in a blur, and he had yet to lean in for a
single chaste kiss. He held her hand, tightly like he'd been worried that if he didn't, he would lose her. She needed to know what it would be like. He'd taken things slowly, expressing his need to make sure she was comfortable, willing, and ready. She was. She knew it. She could no longer wait to have that first kiss, to know if it would be everything she wanted. Perfection. Firsts always were. They were the basis that everything was built on. They had already developed a strong connection, but that wasn't enough for Lilah. She needed Chris to give himself over completely.
When it finally came, Chris cradled her face in his hands. He leaned in, just enough to brush his lips against hers. Lilah shivered at the feather-light touch, yet the anticipation igniting the blood in her veins. She gripped him tightly, palming his shirt in her hands, pulling him closer. He deepened the kiss, at first gently, but then, sweeping his soft tongue against hers, pressing with eagerness, as if to ask for permission. She sighed. Her own lips parting, allowing her to taste him.
Ethan knew he had done her proud, because even he felt the effects within him, sadly pining for that kind of moment of his own. And he made sure that although the kiss was flawless, that each one after was given to Lilah with the same amount of ardor and passion as the first. In fact, it was the same devotion that he felt for her, that pushed him to the next level. He hadn't meant ever, for a story to take on a direction, other than a simplistic and pure romance, but he couldn't contain himself. He was unable to quell the voice inside him. It begged for his fingers to type faster, to progress the story, push Chris and Lilah over the brink. Hell-bent on filling them with even more passion than before. But she had to wait. There was more to be told.
The day had turned into night, and Ethan ignored the strain in his fingers. He had taken minimal breaks, avoiding anything that might break the concentration of the story and the spirit it invoked in him. But he knew things were drawing to a close. There was only one more thing this epic love needed. He had been putting it off, a little, throwing a few curve balls that he felt she hadn't liked. The urge to delete some of the words on the page became all consuming. But he hadn't given in. Not all romance was perfect. There were up's and down's and Chris and Lilah needed a few roadblocks to overcome. He also wasn't sure if he could close the deal. He knew how the novella would end, but the nerves had begun to get the best of him. Having stepped way out of his comfort zone in the first place was a change he had been willing to accept, but pushing the boundaries just that bit more had him squirming. She was ready, he knew it, she'd been murmuring in his ear, her voice growing louder, insistent. But could he give her the night that she deserved? Could he write Chris in the manner that would have readers swooning, toes curling? Would he be able to create that moment of pure ecstasy? He would try, at the very least...
It had been a perfect evening. And Lilah wanted nothing more than to be completely consumed by Chris. They were able to take what they had learned about each other, and come out stronger on the other side. Things were going to be tough, Lilah was sure of that. But she was also confident that, even now, she had found him. Her connection. Her forever.
Chris slid is fingers over the delicate waves of Lilah’s hair. His hands traveled down her neck, over her shoulders, sliding the straps of her dress free. She gasped as the silky fabric glided to the floor. Swallowing, she refused to feel self-conscious. The longing look in Chris' eyes told her all she needed. She felt safe and secure. And he had always been that. He knew how to put her at ease with a smile or a look, or a caress of his fingers. A hug, when she most needed it. He had seen her both at her worst over the past weeks, and at her best. They had been able to confide their deepest darkest secrets. Lilah had shared with him her worries, her fears, but also about the future she saw for herself, and that she wanted him to be a part of it.
"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice sounding hoarse, as his eyes found hers.
She wasn't sure, but wondered if the raging beats of her heart could be heard by him as he lowered his lips to hers, seizing them. Standing on her tip-toes, she leaned up, pressing the length of her body against his, drawing her arms around his neck. It allowed the kiss to escalate, intensifying with each passing second. And when she broke free, reaching for the buttons of his shirt, she missed the affection he had poured into it.
Lilah tugged at the fabric, releasing it from his pants. He reached up, pulling it off and dropping it to the floor of her bedroom. Her hands instantly went to his bare chest, fingers skimming over every inch of his exposed skin, until he captured her hands, taking them into his, pulling her towards the bed.
He sat down at her side, kissing the top of her shoulder, as he tugged at the straps of her bra, bringing it down, revealing the top of one breast, and then the other. Eagerly, she reached back and undid the clasp, releasing the constraint, sending it to the floor. His mouth found her skin again, kissing, a moment later, switching to dragging his tongue over her. Slowly inching closer, lower, until he pulled one of her pert nipples into his mouth, sucking it.
Lilah all but came undone at the feel of his warm mouth teasing the tender skin, and the only thought that crossed her mind was of wanting more, wanting him to overwhelm her with even more sensual touches. Her insides burning, tingling, awoke with the need to be pleasured until she could no longer stand another second. Needing to know what it felt like to have him inside her...
Ethan cleared his throat, having been pulled out of the scene before him as his own arousal became evident, straining against his pants. That had to be a good thing, and so he continued on. He gave Lilah and Chris everything he could. He'd made himself blush, but knew if that were the case, he'd done his job well. Lilah had needed someone to cherish her. That was what she wanted most out of the story that she had told him.
As Ethan wrote the final sentences of the story, he was gripped with a sense of gratitude. Like someone had reached out, touched his shoulders and poured it into him. He typed “The End,” saved the file and shut the computer down, feeling accomplished.
When he turned around and got up from the chair, he blinked. Unfocused, maybe, or he had made it up, but at first it was just a glimmer. Then it began to take shape. Ethan pressed his palms into his eyes, rubbing the image away. Only when he reopened them, she was there, he was sure of it, standing right in front of him.
Lilah.
"Thank you," she said, and it was the voice he had heard all along. He was certain. He'd have recognized it anywhere. The one telling him the story that had to be written. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, to say something, though he wasn't sure what he might have said, she wiggled her fingers in a wave.
A smile plastered on her face, she dissolved into the air around him.
He stared at the space for a long while until he realized what she was, having been lost without it for so long. But he had found her and had taken her into his soul. She had given back to him the will to write.
She was his muse.
Bookstores and Dreams
HENLEY FLIPPED through the worn and dog-eared pages of "The Write Way" her eyes searching for a line highlighted in yellow. Who was she kidding? The entire book, one of her most prized possessions, was almost entirely highlighted in various fluorescent colors.
Though she had read the book front to back, dozens of times over the years, she often turned to it when sitting at her computer. There was a quote or tip that suited almost every situation, and it always helped her find that voice of inspiration when she needed it.
It had been the last gift her father had given her before he died. She'd toted the book around with her everywhere; stained with coffee, binding torn and barely holding together, and, of course, marked-up and dog-eared. Henley couldn't let the book out of her sight. Not just because it often seemed to give her the courage to write, but what it had stood for; her father’s belief in her. That he understood her need to be creative, and that he’d always be there to help.
* * *
Henley could close her eyes, rememberin
g the day so clearly. The book wrapped in glossy paper and given to her just because. A few days before that, she’d declared to her parents that she was going to be a writer. And she’d do whatever it took to achieve that. Her father had seen the sparkle in her eye, as she waved the paper, graded with an A, and he’d told her, “If you want to be a writer, be a writer. And never give up.” Henley would also never forget the discouraging look her mother had given the two; trying to ruin the moment by claiming Henley’s dream was most likely something unattainable, that Henley would be better suited to a “real” career, like becoming a doctor or a lawyer.
A rift between Henley and her mother had quickly formed, as the bond between her and her father had grown even stronger. The two would stay up late plotting out possible novel ideas, creating characters and magical fantasy realms. Back then, they were mostly short stories. Her father spent countless hours reading every one. At the time, Henley sincerely believed she’d be a writer and that her first novel would be dedicated to her father, and that he’d be around to see it happen. He’d be the first in line to buy a copy, have it signed and display it proudly. However, The Write Way had been the last thing her father ever gave her.
A few months after his gift, he died suddenly of a heart attack, taking Henley’s dream of being a writer with him. She’d felt lost without her critique partner, the sadness overwhelming to the point that Henley couldn’t even think of writing a single word without breaking down in tears. To Henley, her heart and her mind were blocked, and she’d never succeed without her father at her side cheering her on.
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