Breakfast of Stubborn Muses

Claire had already laid out the terms before. They were simple and effective. Yet Ehm still pouted, like an ever so petulant child refusing to go to school. 

“Chance… number one… mister.” She huffed and puffed between reps of squats. Her voice rattled in her throat barely audible over the morning’s pulse-pounding wake-up call. The track looped ten times that workout session, the vocals melting into their own incoherent instrument.  

“I hope you like what I picked today. I know it’s your favorite.” Her sarcasm laid its trap outside the blank void that was his brooding closet. The interior’s darkness persisted with mute stubbornness. “Suit yourself.” With a shrug, Claire moved onto a set of push-ups and sweated away her anxieties for the procedure to come.

After wrapping up her workout, she situated a portable speaker on her desk, pointing it directly at her writing chair. By the end of the day, the frantic tempo of her hyperfocus song would seep into the cracks of everything around her. She would breathe the upbeat melody more than hum it. But for the next thirty minutes of her morning she needed something measured and ominous. The looming minor key of Moonlight Sonata proved foreboding. Punching the volume-up button stirred her gut which growled for its first cup of coffee and pleaded for Ehm to behave. Still no bites from the closet. Beethoven’s eerie march continued. She soldiered on through her process.

“It’d be easier on both of us if you would just start talking.” Ehm certainly could hear the desperation bubbling up into her mouth as she scrubbed at the first plate in the sink. Her skin formed a layer of goose bumps from the cold sweat following her weightlifting. It helped her to focus on the reek of her body odor over the dish soap’s lavender scent. Her scrubby sponge’s little cut-out smile did nothing to allay her queasiness. If only Ehm would poke his head out from her bedroom with a similar grin and an apology for his stubbornness. 

“I don’t even know why you’re being quiet today. We reached a really fun part of the book. You get to go on a date with your girlfriend.” She shimmied her hips and goaded him with a sing-song voice. “I thought you’d like the idea of a fair. I won’t make you go on a Tilt-A-Whirl after eating corndogs.” Unless you keep dodging me, she thought as she scoured more furiously at a set of spoons.

Poking past the bedroom door frame, Ehm’s gray eyes greeted her with caution. Where Claire expected gleeful impatience for the prospect of finally kissing the protagonist, there was only a little moue fixed behind thick-framed glasses. If he didn’t herald possibly the worst part of my day I’d say he’s cute, she thought. While playing with the fabric of his bowtie, he attempted the day’s first string of words.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes! It’s a very important par—” His head slowly retreated back into the room. She scoffed and returned to mangling the scrubby’s cheerful visage. Claire made a mental note to help him with a confidence-building plot arc in the near future.

“One more step!” she yelled over the somber music as she set a plate and fork in front of her computer monitor. This was about the time she began playing “which stage of grief am I in?” While denial and bargaining duked it out, she moved on with her morning and sauntered past the disparaged man in her closet and into the bathroom. Only the whites of his eyes gleaming from the darkness clued her in that he was still with her. The motions of plugging up her tub and fine-tuning the temperature of the water felt detached and numb. Bargaining finally won out.

“Please, Ehm. I’ll let you do anything you want at that fair. Get stuck on a Ferris wheel, win Odessa a big teddy bear.” Silence. “What flavor of trope do you want? It’ll be better than what we’re about to eat.” Nothing but ear-grating silence. She sighed and slipped into the tub, focusing on the tepid water to keep from breaking another sweat.

The entire basis for her technique stemmed from one of her previous morning baths. Like most discoveries it was not so much an “aha!” moment and more that it toppled into a place it shouldn’t. She was in the middle of sudsing up her arms when the bar of soap in her hands did what bars of soap were invented to do: shot out between her fingers and hit her straight in the mouth. Her body reeled at the concussive shock, dunking her head beneath the grimy bathwater as she went to gasp. 

Ehm had fallen into one of his sullen moods and remained stubborn and tight-lipped. The instant Claire sucked in a liter of water he mirrored her violent reaction. Arms flailing, he retched an invisible liquid out of his lungs. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the tub, glasses fogging over from the steam, and begged her through wet coughs to “never do that again.”

“It was an accident!” She wheezed, throat shredded and mouth coated in a metallic acidity. Never again did she want to sample such a sickening taste, but his dripping desperation lathered up an idea. When his next session of stubborn meekness arrived weeks later, she faced him down with unblinking determination. 

“What are you doing?” Without breaking eye contact, she lifted the bar of lilac-scented soap to her mouth. His tongue recoiled behind his grimace. 

“You need to speak.” The logic was half-baked, and Ehm knew it.

“How is a punishment used for naughty words supposed to make me say something?”

“Does a mouthful of soap need logic?”

“You don’t need to treat me like a child if you’d only listen to me.”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all morning?” she shouted. Ehm’s muteness led to sputtering as Claire licked the bar, eliciting a gag from her as well. 

Over the span of months she found use for her nauseating idea. Most times, it worked. The times that hadn’t, she questioned her choice in muses. Her threat of punishment matured into a grand presentation on her office desk. She plated the bar of vanilla-cream soap and added an extra flourish of pouring herself a glass of gray bathwater.

“Last chance, Ehm.” Claire sat in her chair, arms crossed and leaning forward, waiting for a response. Ehm hovered at the entrance to the office. She did her best not to mimic his weary stare at the thought of their communal breakfast.

“Claire,” he whined, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Don’t think I won’t do it.”

“Ple-please, no.” His plea was lost amongst the cacophony of music and left nothing but flapping lips. That didn’t count as talking in her book.

“Why don’t you say something? I thought you loved Odessa.” 

“I do.”

“So tell me all about your date with her.”

His lips clamped closed once more, leaving her to huff in frustration.

The fork tines pierced through the block of soap and wobbled it in front of his face. She brought his dessert-scented torture to her lips and mourned for her taste buds. I’m sorry, Odessa. But if I can’t have him, no one can! 

His words stumbled over themselves before she could fully bite down. “I don’t want to go to some stupid fair!” She pulled her teeth out of the bar, leaving a comical indent on its smooth surface, and wiped the shavings from her lips with her shirt.

“But it’s the—” She grumbled at the bouncy second half of the sonata and flicked her thumb over the off switch. Sweet silence followed that she hoped would soon be replaced by her usually chatty muse. “But it’s the setting that makes the most sense for the story.”

He fiddled with the tweed of his jacket’s sleeve, still hesitant to look her in the eyes. She tested the waters, lifting the revolting lollipop to her gaping mouth and watched him wince. Words were rendered useless when hand-wringing spoke on his behalf. She sat back in her chair and contemplated his actions. Maybe he didn’t need that confidence-boosting arc after all.

“Where do you want to go instead?” Her tone remained thoughtful. Ehm glanced up in a sheepish manner and swallowed a lump that didn’t taste of sanitized bile.

“The greenhouse at the university.”

She nodded in understanding. “You wanted something more private.”

“And quiet. I was thinking we could have a picnic there.” He bobbed his head along with her. “You know this is all I ever asked for.” The hunk of soap clattered onto the plate and she placed her face in her hands, embarrassed to look at her sweet, shy creation, who could be oh-so-talkative when given the chance.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Claire’s hushed tone filled every gap she had pushed between them and invited him in with open ears. Picking up her notebook, she huddled into her chair and imparted to him a suds-free smile. His shoulders slumped with a relaxed sigh and he plopped onto the floor next to her.  

“So,” she clicked her pen. “What would you like to do on your picnic?”