Before I quite knew what had happened, we had arranged to meet at the hospital that afternoon.
I hung up and looked at the clock on the living room wall, above the fireplace
(it’s one I got in the Red Cross shop: electric blue circular frame, Power Rangers;
adds a kind of rakish joie de vivre to the living room, I’ve always thought).
I had several hours until the rendezvous. I decided to take my time getting ready,
and looked cautiously at myself in the mirror while the shower warmed up.
Could I ever become a musician’s muse? I wondered. What was a muse, anyway?
I was familiar with the classical allusion, of course, but, in modern-day, practical terms,
a muse seemed simply to be an attractive woman whom the artist wanted to sleep with.
I thought about all those paintings: voluptuous maidens reclining in curvaceous splendor,
waiflike ballerinas with huge limpid eyes, drowned beauties in clinging white gowns surrounded by floating blossoms.
I was neither curvaceous nor waiflike. I was normal-sized and normal-faced (on one side, anyway).
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