Inspiration Pays A Visit

Contributor: David A Moody

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There is a desk and a chair that do little to cover the nakedness of the room. A body, frail and brittle as the old wallpaper, sits at the desk with bad posture—he often corrects himself and straightens his spine, only to give in to distraction and allow it to curve again. His world is silent and possesses all the charm of a beloved pet in pieces on a roadway. Occasionally, the wind rattles his windows and reminds him of his ghosts too disinterested to haunt him.
Then she arrives. She spills from his mind and leaks down his spine until he can feel her throughout his entire body. Her colors stain his skin a spectral shade of white so dull it glows. She stops at the country store between his heart and ambition to purchase a roadmap of his veins. She wants to see the sights and enjoy the rural fare. She’s a city girl and has always maintained a mocking curiousness toward how the others live.
Her car slows to observe the scene. It begins to rain desperation and loathing, and she has to pull over to fasten the cloth top of her convertible and quickly roll up the manual windows. The muscles of her petite arm burn as the oxygen leaves as a result of her strenuous effort. Damn the charm of antiquity. She sees his daily motions. The alarm clock sounds the urgency of the hour, and he is on his feet and in the shower within moments. She laughs at his body. He is so thin the water from the shower seems to miss his body and roll down the ceramic floor as if in a hurry to escape. The shower is brief, and he stands before an empty closet that holds three identical suits. She shakes her head in disgust at the speed with which he buttons his collar and ties his laces. It is a joyless routine.

Briefcase in hand and foot following foot, he makes his way to the train. She must apply more pressure to the accelerator to keep his pace. She races alongside the train and maneuvers the subterranean tunnels with the greatest of ease. His heart is rolled up in his sleeve like a pack of cigarettes. She jerks the wheel suddenly to avoid an obese man’s cough. She applies the brakes to dodge an invalid’s wheelchair. Everyone is beautiful in her neighborhood. Never has she seen such imperfection. A cat on the prowl, she slinks up the moving stairs; the treads of her tires struggle for traction on the filthy ground. He increases the speed of his walk near the park. The beggar woman there hurls venom and spittle at him. The crust that resides on the corners of her mouth resembles the makeup of a sickening party clown. There are no balloon animals for the children, only hepatitis. He pays her no mind; this is normal. Silence is his weapon. Numbness to the world is commonplace here. She twists a knob by the steering column to activate the windshield’s blades to clear the unpleasantness that obscures her vision. It will be difficult for her to sleep tonight.
Following him from a distance through the heavy glass doors and up the elevator to the seventh floor, she sees him at his desk and places the transmission of her car in park. Carefully she unbuckles her seatbelt and observes. This is the most horrible sight of all. The work is dull and the day moves slowly. Now she understands why he never calls on her anymore. This has become her replacement. A bloated double-breasted monster in a suit slithers from cage to cage and leaves behind it a trail of gelatinous self-importance. By the end of the hour she can take no more. The engine stutters when she holds the turn of the ignition too long, and the car lurches forward with a jolt; her foot is too anxious to press the gas and escape. She will wait for him at home.
Long after it is dark, he comes home. The door cracks open, he steps into the apartment, and places his bag on the desk. He looks at her and smiles. She is naked. Her hair is beautiful and long and covers her shapely breasts and spills over her delicate shoulders. The air is saturated with her intoxicants.
He unbuttons his shirt and sits down at the desk. Tonight will be different. Tonight he will write. Her hands move with his. He presses his fingers to the keys and begins to think and feel. Throughout the night he continues. It pleases her. She rolls about on the bed and gives everything she has to him. Her hand teases between her legs. Fingers make their way to the swollen source of her aching. The carnival balloon swells as the water pistol hits the target. Who will be the winner? Her toes curl, and her limbs threaten to stretch beyond their limit. Her teeth bite her lip until the blood runs down her chin and mixes with the sweat between her breasts. She falls asleep naked, bleeding, and satisfied.
The next morning, he is still at the desk pressing the keys. She dresses quickly and leaves without a word. She will return. He needs her more than ever. But she doesn’t need him. That’s the way she likes it. The smoke curls from her tailpipe as she idles momentarily before accelerating into the soft morning. She feels like getting lost.

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I am in my last twenties and overly fond of cats, mountains, and cane sugar. I'm as clueless as everyone else.
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