For Jordyn
She puts ice cubes in her coffee. I put cream in mine. We both leave the sugar alone. When the waitress asks if we want refills we say yes. We punctuate our sentences with fits of laughter. There is something comfortable about us laughing together.
We talk about art. We discuss our creative processes. She is a painter. We consider inspiration, discipline. She tells me about the way she works, the hours spent mixing shades. She tells me about when it comes easy and when it is hard. I love the way she looks when she talks about her art. Her eyes are focused. She comes alive.
We talk about her boyfriend. He hasn’t been calling her enough
lately. She wonders if he is just getting comfortable or if he is losing interest. She is feeling needy and neurotic. She wants to get laid.
We talk about my ex-boyfriend. He is self-absorbed and has no boundaries. We agree I might have bad taste in men.
I tell her she is not the most neurotic person in the world and she takes it as a compliment.
We talk about trauma. Addiction. PTSD. These things are difficult to talk about but they work their way into the conversation effortlessly. I stare off into space for a moment. She asks me what I’m thinking so I try to explain. I like that my admissions are not shocking, the way she takes them like she takes her coffee and returns them with some of her own.
At her apartment I pose for her and she takes my picture. She wants me turned that way, she wants me screaming, she wants my arms wrapped around myself, she wants me on the floor. I follow her
direction. I don’t see the pictures but she tells me they are good.
She wants to capture my sadness. I want her to capture my sadness. I want it to be made tangible, visible, separate from myself. She calls me her muse.
I try to relax. I don’t try to be beautiful but I hope I am. I watch her face as she reviews the pictures with pleasure. I love the way our laughter, erupting, smoothes the rough edges. I sit on the floor and look up at her, letting my face be my face, letting my body be my body, letting myself be her muse.
I return home wanting to write. I write her smile, the sound of her voice which I hear in my head, the way I sense her power when she takes my picture. I write the way she puts ice cubes in her coffee, the way she isn’t getting the attention from her boyfriend she deserves, the way she is an artist, the way she is my muse.