The Muse-Shabbat smack down

Friday at 6:45, my muse knocks on the door.

Shabbat answers. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?” she asks.

“Who is it?” I call.

My muse starts to answer, but Shabbat cuts her off. “No one! Just a salesperson!” She glares at my muse. “You can’t come in now. It’s my time.”

My muse raises her hands in confusion, diaphanous robes fluttering. “But, I just have this one really great idea—”

“Tough. Come back in twenty-five hours.”

“Can I just leave a message? A short little—”

Shabbat glares. “I don’t take dictation,” she says, slamming the door in my muse’s face.

I watch from the end of the hallway, slipping back into the kitchen before Shabbat turns around. When she glides back into the room and cups her body against my back, I pretend nothing happened.

Shabbat is a taste of paradise, but she can be jealous.


The day after Purim

Shabbat arrives as usual, dressed in silk with her hair and make-up beautifully arranged.

The room is a mess, and with the exception of a pair of candles glowing on the table it seems that nothing has been prepared.

“What is this?” Shabbat demands. “You knew I was coming! Where is my welcome?”

I scramble, bleary-eyed, to a seated position on the couch. “I’m sorry—really sorry Shabbat, but last night your little brother came in from Persia. He kept me up all night partying. Then this morning he pulls me out of bed again, just a few hours after I fell asleep. He’s exhausting!”

“Oh, him.” Shabbat settles beside me on the couch. “Did the two of you have a good time, at least?”

“He’s a fabulous guy.” I lean into her, nuzzling her neck. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”