The Elusive Muse

I looked down at my watch and sighed in frustration. My friend was twenty minutes late and counting. Sipping my half-consumed cappuccino that was already lukewarm, I glanced outside the window next to me. It was a beautiful morning, sunny and crisp with the promise of autumn. College students milled about in large groups, chugging frappuccinos and enjoying their last bits of freedom before the start of the school year. Businesspeople dressed in pressed suits and lugging shining briefcases rushed past everyone else with an urgency and purpose that no one else seemed to appreciate. Past the square by a bubbling fountain, I saw several families holding back curious children as they tried to run their hands through the water. I guess everyone but me was having a good morning.

“Miss, would you like a refill?”

I turned to the smiling waitress and glanced down at my phone. No messages.

“No, that’s okay, I might be leaving soon.”

“No problem. I’ll be here if you change your mind.”

She gave me a sympathetic grin and went to another table. My phone buzzed, and I eagerly snatched it up. Sorry, I can’t make it this morning, read my friend’s text. Maybe later, though. It took all of my restraint not to hurl my phone across the café. If she hadn’t planned on showing up at all, why had she made plans with me yesterday? I sent back a frowning face and pushed back from my chair. That’s okay, I thought as I exited the café. I didn’t need her for the beginning portion of my day.

My friend was an interesting sort of person, an artist to say the least. Her well of creativity never ceased to amaze me, and whenever we spent time together, she would tell me all of the ideas that had been spinning around inside her head. I loved our conversations, and I always looked forward to this exchange of ideas. But that was her good side. She never seemed to show up at convenient times, and it wasn’t infrequently that she would cancel our plans at the last minute after I had already cleared my schedule for her.

A bell chimed as I entered a bookstore across the street from the coffee shop. The fresh smell of printed pages met my nostrils, and I nodded my greeting to the black-and-white poster of Virginia Woolf that had hung inside the entrance for as long as I could remember. A familiar pang of excitement and anticipation shot through me. There was no place as comforting and inspiring as a bookstore. I cracked my knuckles and made my way to the fiction section.

Time seemed to pause as I entered the world that I cherished. I wandered among shelves as tall as the ceiling and quickly gathered a stack of books that I brought to an armchair in the back of the store. Despite myself, I wished my friend was there. Not that I didn’t enjoy time at the bookstore alone. Any time spent at this bookstore was time well spent according to me, but when my friend accompanied me, she made the plots of the books come alive in a way they didn’t when I was alone. We would talk endlessly, coming up with different titles and alternate endings and spin-off stories. I shook myself of these thoughts and settled into the armchair to read.

For hours, I sat there, wrapped inside my world of poetry and fantasy and science fiction. By the time I came out of my stupor and checked my phone, it was afternoon. And I still hadn’t received any message from my friend. To hell with it, I thought. The day had already veered away from the events I had planned, so why should I salvage it at all? Instead of the productive work I had intended to do today, I would go for a walk. In theory, a walk through the city would inspire me to do my work later.

Upon stepping outside, a delightful breeze tickled my face. Summer really was on its way out, and the hot, humid days were being slowly replaced with overcast skies and changing trees. I passed between a row of aspens lining the sidewalk and noticed with satisfaction a few leaves that had changed from forest green to a crisp burnt orange. As I walked aimlessly through the city, passing over bridges with few people and past busy thoroughfares, I felt myself calming, my mind settling down from its jangle of worry and frustration. All that mattered was that I was under a cerulean sky, taking in the glorious combination of nature and city and getting in my ten thousand steps for the day.

When I emerged from the bustle of a strip mall and onto a bridge, I paused. The lake at the city’s edge stretched before me, a deep, shimmering blue that reflected the afternoon sunlight. Several boats dotted its distant surface, and I could almost taste the shiver of cold water that lapped at their sides. Closer to me, a group of guys in their twenties sped around the lake in their motorboat. A couple fishermen stood patiently with their fishing poles on the beach. I took a quick picture of the scene and sent it to my friend. Look at what you’re missing! I texted. Wanna meet me for lunch? You have to be able to create something with this view. She replied almost instantly. Yeah, sure! When and where? After telling her to meet me in fifteen minutes, I walked the rest of the way across the bridge and sat down at a small lunch place with outside tables that overlooked the lake. It was too beautiful outside not to take advantage of it. I ordered two sandwiches and settled down to wait.

The situation soon turned into another waiting game like what had happened that morning. Fifteen minutes turned into twenty, twenty turned into thirty, and forty-five minutes later, I received a text from my friend that said she wouldn’t be able to make it but hoped we could spend some time together in the evening. Too tired to be frustrated, I ate both sandwiches in awkward silence, trying not to glance at the obviously empty chair across from me.

After I finished the food, I decided to head back to my apartment. I had spent too long today waiting for my friend, and I wouldn’t wait any longer. There were plenty of other fun things I could do without her. But the afternoon passed with painful slowness into evening. I did my laundry, washed dishes, cleaned my room, watched some TV, and eventually gave up and just sat on my couch doing nothing for a while. When dinner time arrived, I was so bored that I gave in and messaged my friend again to see if she wanted to join me. Not surprisingly, I didn’t even receive a response. The rest of the evening somehow passed and then it was time for me to go to bed. Another day waiting for her to show up, I thought in annoyance as I closed my eyes. Ah, well. I would try again tomorrow.

It had to be three in the morning when I heard my phone buzzing. Jerking awake, I clumsily reached for it and blearily stared at the message from my friend. I’m here. Sure enough, I heard repeated knocking at my door. Cursing softly, I jumped out of bed and opened the door.

“You won’t believe the great idea I had!” my friend exclaimed and pushed past me into my living room.

“So now you finally decide to show up?” I muttered.

“Just wait till you hear what I’m thinking of writing.”

She tightened the barrette around her dark brown hair that looked just like mine and flopped down onto the couch with a crack of her knuckles that suggested she was ready to work. When I lifted my arm to scrub a hand over my weary eyes, she did the same. Aside from the nose ring and the tattoo on her upper arm declaring her status as artist, she looked just like me, right down to the hazel eyes and the nervous habit of biting her lip. As always, her timing was inconvenient, but I would never miss out on an opportunity to talk to her.

“Let me get my laptop,” I said, racing back to my room. “I want to write down what you say so we don’t forget it.”

I flopped down on the couch next to her, my fingers hovering over my keyboard, and she began to speak. We spent the night like that, trading ideas back and forth, her creativity spilling out as my fingers flew to record it, our gestures remarkably similar to one another as we sat there in the dark.