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Muse

One bright and crisp Monday morning while I practiced my lines off stage, the director of our college production of A Midsummer Night's Dream walked up to me to cut me off.  He told me that it was all wrong.

What was all wrong?  I asked, setting my script down.

You, he said.  He then proceeded to tell me to go home and find a muse to play the part of Lysander.

A muse?  I asked sardonically.  Like the nine sisters of Greek myth?

No, he replied.  A muse, as in who you think of when you act like you're in love, when you're angry, when you feel passion.  Emotion.  Everyone has someone they think of.  Go home and think about it.  Find your muse.

I pondered this as I walked through the light snow and into my apartment in the afternoon.  I had been in my fair share of relationships before, but they had never been serious enough so that one girl would immediately pop to mind when I acted the part of a lovesick young man, case in point being Lysander.  In short: I didn't have a muse.

When I unlocked the door to 361, what did I see?  A barefoot stranger standing in one of my shirts.

This stranger was not beautiful.  She had very fine blonde hair tucked behind her prominent ears and it reached her waist, so light it was almost white, with almost invisible eyebrows to match.  Her skin was pale and contrasted poorly with her hair, her corners too sharp for her tall frame, her lips too wide, and a pinkish rash ran across the bridge of her too-small nose and undefined cheekbones.  

And then she smiled widely, kaleidoscope-colored eyes dancing.  Sorry to barge in, she apologized.  It's an odd request, I know, but may I stay here awhile?  I've been kicked out by my parents and I need a place to crash.

No.  I don't know who you are, was what I really wanted to say.  

Instead, I ignored her question and settled on asking for her name.

She simply grinned that too-wide grin.  You can call me whatever you'd like, she said.

I thought over this.  Mused about it, even.  How about Muse?  I joked, amused by my own play on words.  The director had told me to find a muse, so why couldn't I just make one?

It's a beautiful name, she beamed.  Then she excused herself to go take a nap on my couch.

I hadn't even given my approval for her to stay, but I pitied this strange girl.  I knew the feeling of being kicked out by my own parents.  My apartment was too large for one person, anyway.  It wasn't like she was going to live here for an extended period of time.  I'd let her stay for a night or two, three at most. 

If only I knew wrong I was.

She was eccentric and lively, moody and sad, confident and witty, and most of all, passionate.  That was only the first day I met her, after she woke up and we had a conversation over a dinner of waffles with chocolate syrup; Muse's favorite things to eat were sweets, especially blueberry Poptarts.

The next morning, I took her shopping; she hadn't come to my apartment with clothes, which was why she had been wearing my shirt.  I found this ridiculously convenient and strange, but said nothing.  The town's meager variety of clothing shops was good enough for Muse.  I remember taking out my starved wallet at one store, but her slim fingers closed around my wrist.

I already owe you so much for letting me live with you.  I'll pay for myself, she'd declared.

Then she took out her own leather wallet and, without looking, stuffed a few twenties into the cashier's hand.