“Where in the hell are you when I need you, you sneaky wench?”  

He paced, he growled, he threw his pen at the wall.  (Yes, he still wrote with a fountain pen.)

“Damn muse,” he muttered.

The muse, a tiny ethereal redhead, set perched on the top of the bookcase and peered down.  She flicked a dismissive hand.  

“And what have you done for me lately? Hmm?”

She continued.  

When was the last time you spoke to me without swearing? Or spoke to me at all for that matter?”

The author attempted self-justification.  “Just last week…”

The muse interrupted.

“Yes.  You yelled ‘I have a fucking deadline!’ Lovely conversation.”

He opened his mouth to try again. He never had a chance.

“Oh, yes, and the week before that you took me to a bar and ignored me the entire night.”

Defeated, he relented a bit.  “Maybe you are right, I may have been ignoring you.”

“Maybe?? “ May” have??” scoffed the muse, narrowing her eyes..

“Okay.  You are right.  Will you come down so we can talk about it?  I miss you and I need you.”

The muse narrowed her eyes and looked at him.  He smiled tentatively.  She huffed and floated down to his desk.  He put on his most winsome look.

“What can I do to make it up to you?”  

The muse pouted.

“First, you can buy me flowers and then you can take me out – and I want your full attention.”

“Okay, and …?”

“Time,” she sighed, “more than anything I want your time.  I want to be with you.”

“All right”, the writer declared.  “You deserve it.  I will spend every morning writing with you.  I promise!”

She smiled and thought, _“Until you get lazy.  But, when the next deadline arrives, you will cry for me.”_