I heard her laughing behind me, and turned. "What?"
She smirked. "Frustrated?"
"Who, me? Of course not. What gave you that idea?"
"The page and a half of mashed keys you have there."
"I can't think of anything to write, Sue."
She put her hands on my shoulders and stood behind me. I could feel her lean against me. Even after seven years of marriage, I still get chills from that.
"You'll be fine, baby. Just close your eyes and think."
"C'mon, Susan, I'm trying to--"
Her cool hands reached up and covered my eyes. I smelled her vanilla hand lotion. Sometimes I could just eat her up with a spoon.
She leaned down, her hair brushing against my collar, and she whispered in my ear, "Just take a breath, and write the first words that pop into your head." I felt the puff of air from her words, against my ear. Again, chills.
I started typing.
She laughed and straightened up, slapping the top of my head playfully. "If that's where you're going with this article, you're writing for the wrong magazine."
I looked at the words on the screen: "when she touches me, i feel shockwaves down my spine and fire growing in my--"
"Whoops!" I said, backspacing. "Well, what do you expect, when you're practically laying on me me as I work."
She smiled. "What can I say, I'm your muse!"
"Ain't that the truth. So, you know how the muses gave the poets inspiration, right?"
She walked into the next room, stocking feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. "Yes, I do, in fact. Unfortunately for you, this muse is also the keeper of the household, and there are groceries to be bought." She stuck her head in the doorway and made a "kissy" face. "Looks like you'll have to just go without inspiration for a while longer."
"The writer's life is a cold and lonely one," I announced with a theatrical sigh.
For a moment, I heard the music of her laughter as she walked out the front door.