28.3.08

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.

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