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.
You've come to my apartment so prepared, I joked as we walked out. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you just fell from the sky and onto my veranda.
Muse had only smiled mysteriously at me.
I dropped her off at my apartment and left for a professer's lecture. When I returned, Muse was making soup. Except she could barely operate a stove, and was trilling and pirouetting beautifully, clearly distracted. There was a small fire dancing with her on the stone top of the tableware drawer. Muse could not cook, I learned—how did one manage to burn soup? So I made or bought all our meals for the time being, mostly sugary desserts at her request.
I had initially planned to let her stay for three days at most. Within those three days, I discovered an abundance of things about the quirky stranger and what she did while I attended class. I learned that Muse loved to sing—her unimaginably beautiful voice was the cloth that wove dreams, the sweetest note on a violin, the warmth of a fire on a cold winter day. I learned that her bony elbows and sharp knees came together gracefully when she danced, as I first saw when I came home the afternoon of the fire. I learned that her silken platinum hair would not stay in a braid or ponytail; the smooth strands always slipped out past each other. I learned that her deft fingers could sketch and shade images so vivid and real the birds should have flown off the paper, the horses seemed ready to gallop away, the flowers almost swaying in the breeze.
But the more I knew about her, the more I realized I didn't know about her. Not one morning of those three days went by when I didn't wonder where Muse had come from, how old she was, how she had found me. Three nights of her staying in my apartment went by when I finally paused over dinner. I had just realized that I didn't even know her real name.
That was the night I had originally planned for her to leave. Muse was already asleep on my couch, full from chocolate donuts and Poptarts. I took in her slippery silk sheet for hair, her narrow feet, her black sweat pants and nautical stripe sweater. Then thought: Would I really mind if she stayed until the week's end? Seventy-two hours had given me enough time to decide my answer, I felt. It was a spontaneous, impulsive choice, but at the time, I had pitied Muse for her parents booting her out from their home.
On that fourth morning, I woke up to the smell of slightly burnt batter. Following my nose, my bleary eyes and feet took me to the sight of a panicked-looking Muse desperately trying to flip some pancakes over. Gently, I took the spatula from her, her face red from embarrassment.
I tried to make you breakfast, Muse explained hastily. I wanted to pay you back, too, so I... She gestured clumsily to her wallet lying on the grey stone counter and walked over, yanking out a thick stack of bills and thrust them at me.
You don't have to. It's fine, I countered. I hoped that my hidden eagerness didn't seep through.
Yes, I do. Take it; I owe it to you, Muse urged. She neatly left the money in a pile on the counter next to her wallet, and that was that.
The next few days flew by, and by the end of the week, I had gathered more about Muse. Her kaleidoscope-like eyes seemingly changed color with her mood, and the laughter that often escaped her mouth sounded like soft bells chiming. I found her to be an excellent writer; Muse's eloquent writing and poetry flowed in a stream of effortlessly crafted words. She loved history and could spout facts about anything in my courses at the university, but math baffled her. Muse adored the stars and gazed at them at night from the narrow veranda, pointing out as many constellations she could name to me when I joined her. I discovered that she was an extremely talented actress, and before I knew what was happening, Muse was teaching me how to portray Lysander, in her own unique way. She was teaching me how to play my part. She was teaching me how to fall in love with drama all over again.
When I made the choice to let Muse stay for the week, I hadn't known those few extra days would stretch into weeks. All the while, I didn't do anything about it, because I simply enjoyed her company. Muse didn't say anything about it, either, only tried to force a couple of bills into my hands every Thursday, as some sort of ironic tribute to the first day she had given me money.
Three weeks after I first met Muse, I was on stage at the end of Act 4, Scene 1, where Lysander and Demetrius wake from their trance and reunite with their beloved Hermia and Helena, respectively. The director stopped us and called me off the stage.
He looked at me with an unreadable expression. You've changed in these past three weeks, he told me.
How so? I asked him—I felt that I hadn't changed at all.
You're finally able to put some passion into your part, he said. I'm glad—there will be production companies at the play, looking for aspiring young actors. It seems that you've found your muse at last.
So it had been Muse all along. She had been inspiring me in countless ways, and I had never noticed. I was ashamed of myself.
Sir, I said. May I bring my muse as a guest to the performance?
Of course, he smiled. I would love to meet her.
I returned to my apartment, dusting off the light snow on my jacket as I stepped through the door to see Muse on the couch, reading a book—poetry, probably.
Muse, I began.
Yes? She smiled the wide smile that I now found charming as she set the book down.
Would you like to come to our university's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream? I asked, suddenly shy.
Muse's smile grew. I would love to, she assured me.
A childish surge of pride filled me as I heated some cinnamon rolls for her, as I brushed my teeth, as I lay in bed that night.
Over the next few weeks, Muse and I fell into a sort of routine. Sometimes I would come home to find Muse gone to the library, to the park. If she was home, she was reading, writing her brilliant poetry, sleeping, snacking on something, sketching, singing, dancing, or fruitlessly playing with her hair that would never hold a braid. Sometimes I would be out with friends or come back late, but Muse would always be there, waiting. We had the unspoken rule to keep Thursdays free—the day she would stuff cash into my pockets to help me pay for rent while I tried to pull it back out, the day we spent hours talking, the day we would attempt to learn more about each other.
And the sense of intimacy grew. A few times, Muse peeked into my room to show me something she found interesting from a book or poem or song lyrics. We discussed these things and the topics they led to into the early hours of the morning. Oftentimes I would wake up in my small twin bed to find my hands twined in Muse's flaxen hair, our legs tangled together, her warmth-seeking arms curled against my chest. We were not romantically involved, and yet I began to associate parts of her with beauty. I grew to adore her small nose, her big smile, pale porcelain skin, sharp elbows, and even that strip of a pinkish rash splashed across her cheekbones and nose.
Time flew like this, in this idyllic world. I was happy.
Exactly two months since Muse first appeared in my apartment had passed. Flowers were blooming, the snow was falling in light feathers rather than sheets, and it was the day our A Midsummer Night's Dream was finally going to be shown. That day I was anxious and skittish, but Muse kept reassuring me over and over again that I was going to do well.
I have to leave early, I said to Muse as I shrugged on my leather jacket.
I'll see you there, Muse smiled and gave a little wave.
When I arrived, I tried to block out the mindless chatter of the growing crowd with images of ever-changing eyes, pale hair, creamy skin, and a wide smile I had come to love. Muse.
And the moment I stepped onto the stage filled with lights, my eyes scanned the audience as my mouth meaninglessly spit out words from memory. At last, I spotted her—in the navy blue dress she had bought that first morning after we met. Muse's slippery satin locks were pulled back in a braided updo that was already starting to slip out. She had done it, yanked it, wrestled with it for God knows how long just to come see my meager performance in a play. Her grand smile was once again motivating me, supporting me, inspiring me. That night, I was on fire as I gave it my all.
At last the play ended on a humorous note from Puck. The audience applauded and whistled as the actors all stepped onto the stage and bowed. I felt the smile on my face waver when I saw the empty seat, the entire crowd of people lacking a golden-haired girl. Muse had left.
I didn't wait as I pushed through the theater goers and my fellow actors who congratulated me. Where had Muse gone? Frantically, I searched around the auditorium, by the restrooms, anywhere I could think of. Most people had left when I found her, huddled in a corner outside the building, her breath coming out in puffs of fog as she stared up at the stars.
As I neared her, I realized she was crying. I had never seen her cry before. Muse loved to smile all the time. She was leaning melancholically against the side of the building, hiccupping erratically as tears fell down her cheeks.
I shuffled forward, wrapping my arms around her. Hey, what's wrong? I worriedly asked her.
Muse only shook her head, further loosening her elaborate braided hair.
Hey, you're okay. Come on, let's go home. I don't want you to get sick, Muse, I comforted her.
She shook her head against my shoulder. I don't want to leave, she wept.
Why didn't she want to leave the theater? It's fine, I reassured her.
No, it's not, Muse cried. I don't want to leave you.
It's all right. I'll always be here for you, I promised.
Muse sobbed quietly, dampening my shirt. I didn't know what to do, so I kissed the top of her head. Then her forehead. Then her two cheeks and her nose, brushing my lips across the pink stripe. I softly kissed the corner of her mouth, then slid left. My heart was thumping so wildly I was sure she could hear it. Muse didn't protest as my hands held her chin against mine as my lips met hers.
I would have liked to say that she looped her arms around my neck, that sparks flew, that she was reciprocating how I felt.
But her arms were hanging loosely at her sides.
Her lips were warm but they didn't return the kiss.
I pulled back, embarrassed. Muse's face was unreadable. It's Thursday tomorrow, Muse, I reminded her with fake cheerfulness, trying to mask my disappointment.
She wiped at her eyes and offered a quirk of her mouth, but her kaleidoscope eyes were dull. Yeah, she said. We need to talk tomorrow. I have something to tell you.
Okay, I said. We walked to my old car and drove back to the apartment in a tense silence. The whole way, I bit the inside of my cheek harshly, kicking myself for ruining relations between us.
~
"I don't think I regret anything in my life more than what I did the next day. That Thursday was a hazy, distant memory I could not recall. What had been so important that I had to make Muse wait the entire day? The only thing I knew was that day, I hadn't gone home. To Muse. It doesn't matter now what it was that kept me away, because I know. I know I purposely stayed away because I was selfish and stupid and cowardly. Because I wanted to feel important. Now I'll never know what Muse was trying to tell me."
At this, the son looked up at his aging father, whose wrinkled cheeks were wet as his voice, harsh and bitter, forced out the words. The older man's face was twisted in a distressed expression of regret, anger, and angst.
"No, I'll never know what Muse was trying to tell me that day. I'll never know how old she was. I'll never know where she was from. I'll never know how she found me. I'll never know why she kept telling me she didn't want to leave me. I'll never even know what her real name was." The father emphasized the last sentence.
The son took in his father's anguish and cleared his throat. "So...what happened to her?"
The father slouched and leaned his head back against the plush cushion of his maroon stuffed chair that was had been so carefully picked out by an interior designer as he stared at the high vaulted ceilings, the grand chandelier of the living room. He sighed. "I don't know. The day after that Thursday when I came home, the apartment was empty. And there was no trace of Muse. It seems as if she left just as abruptly as she came. All of her clothes were gone. Not even a note or a sketch or a single sheet of paper. There was nothing left of her."
The son did not know how to comfort his old father. "Did you...love her?"
He saw his father swallow deeply. "I...don't know. Muse was an enigma to me and always will be. Who was she? I don't hold the answer to that, either. But I do know this." Here the old man sat up and reached across the coffee table, grasping his son's hand and looking him straight in the eye. "I loved your mother and I still love her today. But I had a connection with Muse that I will have with no other. It pains me that I never got the chance to introduce her to the director, or anyone else in my life. And yet, perhaps she was only a figment of my imagination, born from my own determination and motivation. I'll never know."
"What happened after that?" The son clasped his father's hand, then gently set it down.
A small, melancholy smile tugged at the corners of the older man's mouth. "That Friday when I returned to the apartment, I was ecstatic—the night of Thursday, I received a call. It was from a woman I didn't know. The director of the play had given my number to her, and she had called to congratulate me on my supposedly phenomenal performance. She asked me if I would like to work for her production company. I told her that I'd think about it, but in truth I'd really just wanted to tell Muse. When I went to let Muse know, she was gone. So I called the lady back and said that I would love to work at her company.
"For the next few years, I wandered from company to company aimlessly, trying to find another person to inspire me. None of my relationships lasted—for a while, I would only date platinum blondes, but their roots were all dark. They were fake because they were not Muse.
"When I was about twenty-five, I had just moved on to a larger company in Southern California. It was there that I met a fierce and headstrong brunette girl two years my junior, and I was attracted to her sass and beauty. She was so different from Muse, but she made me realize something—no one could replace Muse, but that didn't mean that this girl couldn't be a muse."
The younger man grinned faintly, sadly. "Mom."
"Yes. Hannah," the father nodded. "I was very happy with her. We fell in love, got married, and you were born. By this time, her acting career had taken off in Hollywood. I had been offered multiple opportunities to be the same, but I couldn't. The stage was my passion. So I acted as long as I could. It was quite an idyllic life. Your mother became quite successful, and I am not ashamed to say it—she earned far more money than I did. And I stopped doing drama after she passed away.
"Why did you quit?" inquired the son rather wistfully.
The old man pondered this for a little while. "I think I quit the one thing I loved doing because of Muse. Looking back, the only reason I did drama after she left was because I wanted to keep the memory of her alive, whether she was only part of my imagination or not. And after Hannah died, the world grew quiet for me. I felt that she had fueled my vigor for acting after Muse vanished."
"Where do you suppose Muse is now?" asked the son.
His father looked at his own hands, now neatly folded in his lap. "Perhaps she has grown old, like me, and is still inspiring others in her own special way. But to me, Muse will always be the charming young woman that fell from the sky from the heavens and into my life. She is the reason my life is the way it is now, and I am very satisfied with it."
"But you're not happy." The son's words came out more as a statement than a question.
The older man tilted his head back as he let out a deep, prolonged sigh. "Truthfully, no. I am not happy. Content, yes. But I believe that no one in the world is ever truly, wholly happy with their life. Happiness is a fleeting thing—those two months that I spent with Muse, I was happy. The forty-two years I spent with you and your mother, I was happy. But now, with two people that brought me joy in my life gone, I would have to say that the best I will ever be is 'fulfilled' in this lifetime."
The son's mouth quirked upward. "Then if you could do one thing to make you more than 'fulfilled', what would it be?"
The father sat up and gazed at his son with tears brimming in his eyes, and yet he was smiling. "Did you know that even after I married your mother, even after we had you, even after she died—that I was still looking for Muse?
"Once we were walking hand in hand in a crowd. There were so many people, and I kept craning my neck over them. You were five years old. Do you remember what you said?"
"'Daddy, who are you looking for?'" the son recalled fondly.
"And I said: 'I'm looking for a friend.'"
"Muse," realized the son.
"Yes. My whole life, I've been looking over the tops of people's heads, wishing for just a glimpse of fine platinum hair or large ears or kaleidoscope eyes. Because the one thing that could bring me happiness now is if one day, I could finally find her again. Ask her how she had been through all these years. Show her the pictures in my wallet of my beautiful wife and handsome son. Hug her. Tell her: 'Thank you, Muse.'"
And somewhere over his head, the old man thought he could faintly hear the soft bell chimes of laughter.