The Muse by Suzie Carr

nights.” I looked over his crossed legs to the magazines sitting idle on the table next to him. “Can you pass me the Mademoiselle ?”
    He exhaled through his nose and his nostrils grew large and flared like a bull. “I can’t stand when you do that.” He stood up.
    I remained calm with my hands folded neatly in my lap. “When I do what?” I loved toying with him like this and seeing him come all unglued.
    “Bully me with vague threats.”
    “Bully? I’m not a bully.” I stood up and faced him. “How dare you call me a bully?”
    “But you are.” He stared down at me.
    Everyone stopped their folding, their pouring, and their reading and stared at us. A man reading a newspaper folded the tip of the paper down to get a good look. A mother with her baby stopped staring into her child’s eyes and instead took in our sights. The attendant eased into a lazy stance against the counter and watched us instead of her soap opera on the television above her folding station.
    He broke the stare and his chin buckled. “You can be a little mean.” He looked back at me. “It hurts sometimes.” His chin revved into overdrive on the quivering.
    I grabbed for his arm. “What’s really going on here?”
    He exhaled, not taking his serious eyes from me. “I really like this one, and I want you to be happy for me.”
    “I was just messing with you.” I tousled his hair and he backed away.
    “Easy. I kind of liked the way it fell into place tonight.” Finally, he broke into a small smile. Not quite big enough to ease my concern that my best friend almost started to cry right in the middle of ABC Wash Center for reasons still foreign to me.
    We sat back down and an awkward echo of unspoken words sat between us like a mountain. I thumbed through a magazine. He joined me, and the two of us sat there in silence. I read a short story about a girl who traveled to two different continents in search of herself. She searched for two months in mosques, in poor towns, in overcrowded city streets for a sense of wonderment that would entitle her to the fresh sprig of life and the power of being valued. Plagued by the guilt of bad mistakes, she craved to find the truth and forgiveness that would set her free to indulge one day in love and blessings. When she landed back on her own country’s soil, she finally discovered that she didn’t have to look as far to find her answer. Her answer stood at the baggage carousel with a dozen red roses and a big sign that said “Will You Marry Me?” I tossed the magazine down with an extra hard lashing. “How do these people get this crappy stuff published?”
    Larry continued reading his gardening magazine and simply murmured in agreement.
    “Let me ask you something,” I said to him. I tore the magazine away from his face. “Do you think the fantasy of being with someone is better than actually being with someone?”
    “Depends who we’re talking about. If you mean that guy Jeff I dated, fantasy won on that one.” Jeff kissed like a sloppy mess according to Larry. “Most times, I’m pretty satisfied with reality.”
    “Do you think it’s possible for someone to imagine the taste of say a cherry pie if she never in fact ever ate a piece of cherry pie?”
    He stopped reading and pondered this with a tilt of his head and a massage to his now stilled chin. “You’d have to have one heck of an imagination. But sure. I suppose if you concentrated on what a cherry pie might taste like, you could imagine the tartness mixed with the sweetness.”
    We stared straight ahead contemplating this. Finally, I released my concern on a deep breath. “I wrote a short story I want to get your opinion on before I let anyone else read it.”
    A grin stretched across his face revealing deep grooves where his happiness always sat. “It’s about time.” He dropped his head and perused his magazine again. “You know I’m going to love it.” He flipped to a new page. “I love everything you write,