Commitments

Andrew and his wife wait outside.  They wait on last call or a bad song to force out their friends.

A drunk woman eyes them.  She wears too much make up.  She stands away from the two of them - a satellite - but orbits closer for a better look.

The three of them talk.  The wife is the first to introduce herself.  She mentions how she can’t keep dancing, though she planned to.  More and more, the drunk woman squints at Andrew, trying to read an answer on his face.

Though the wife continues about the night she’s having, the drunk woman steers the conversation to Andrew’s hair.  She even goes so far as touching it.  Finally, the woman speaks her mind, “Honey, you got to choose one,” she tells Andrew, “You can’t do both half-assed.  You’re either all the way sexy, or you’re a dude.”

“Mm,” Andrew replies.

“I’m sorry.  I’m drunk.  Am I too in your face?”

“No.  But you’re getting there.”

“It’s just that, your hair is so long and pretty.  But you part it down the middle like a man.  You’ve got to commit, honey.”

Neither Andrew or his wife acknowledge the drunk woman after the comment.  When she leaves, Andrew tries to share a look of relief with his partner.  He rubs his wife’s shoulder - his fingers tipped in coral polish - and asks, “Are you tired?”

Visits

Sometimes, I’ll see him shift in my peripherals.  Always, he’ll lurk in a dark spot, then turn to air the moment I try to spot him.  In fact, I have no idea what he looks like.  I see the movement, but no actors.  I see the rustle, but no bodies.  Always ducking out of sight just in time.  I see the ripple, but no diver.

He drops in when he knows it’s inconvenient.  Like when I’m seeing a friend in an hour.  He wants to feel that he means more, so he times his visits to compete with my plans.  But sometimes, I don’t prefer him, like when he came to me during an acid trip.  I wasn’t in the mood to take him seriously; I wanted to enjoy the lights.  The next time I swallowed a tab, though, I trapped myself in my dull room, and he answered every problem to a story I was writing.

Most times, he’ll speak to me indirectly - the result of a Youtube misclick that leads to a lecture by Alan Watts.  He’ll reveal himself in the affirmation of a mentor, or the warning on a bottle of mayonnaise to stay cool, but never freeze.  He’ll tug my ear to a phrase, or he’ll make the print of a label so small, I have to hold it close.

Once, when my car broke down on the highway, no one would stop when I tried to flag for help.  But when I pushed my car, other drivers got out to push with me.  I think my muse operates the same way.

So I show up to the table everyday, set the cursor on a fresh page, and torment myself.  Sometimes, he’s kind enough to crack his knuckles and get me out of my mess.