“Um, what are you doing?”
“I’m packing.”
“Yes, well, your stuffed bag kind of gave that away.”
She stopped, straightened, and swivelled her head so her obsidian eyes could sear a smoking hole through my bravado.
Oh dear. This was definitely a “handle with care” situation. “I mean to say, do you really need to go? How long will you be gone? What—”
“We’ve spoken about this.” Her commanding voice broke through the impending doom, grounding my calm in its pre-flight checklist.
“We have?”
Her frustration was barely contained whilst heat agitated the air between us. “Breathe.” She was using her, “I’m really trying to be patient right now, but you are pushing all of my buttons,” voice. Patience had never been one of her nominal virtues. But patience wasn’t the virtue I needed. “You’re going to be okay.”
“No. No, I am not. I most definitely will not be okay. I don’t know how you can even say that. Is it the pay? I’ll double it.”
“You don’t pay me anything at all.”
“Yes, well… there’s that. But… I can… I will… I promise.”
She didn’t deem to respond. That is, apart from the tilt of her head and a quirk of her angled brow.
I am not proud of myself, but what did I have left? Nothing. She was zipping up her bag and giving the room a once over. I was desperate. I dropped to my knees and begged. “Please, please don’t go. I have so much to do, I have to come up with a story by… this morning!” Nausea swam behind my eyeballs and heat spiked my veins.
“I have to finish my book, I have to write two sermons, come up with a service, and I am supposed to be creating two separate units to teach my students in one and a half weeks.” My brain was spinning and I almost swooned when I remembered I also had to craft a writing workshop in a couple of months. The room started spinning. But just as I started to topple, a firm grip clawed my shoulder, and a paper bag was thrust in my face.
“For goodness’ sake, would you just breathe. Can you at least do that?”
“No. No, I can’t,” I whimpered into the paper bag. “I’m going to be sick. Please don—”
“Use the bag.”
I wasn’t shocked by her harsh manner. I was used to it; it was how she’d always been: came when she wanted, went when she felt like it, and said whatever fell out of her ill-mannered mouth. But right now, she wasn’t saying a thing, with her bag on her back, she’d pushed the window wide open, and held her wet finger out to gauge the wind. I clambered to my feet, but before I could launch into my next round of useless pleas, she leapt out the window.
The sun was simultaneously absorbed by her indigo wings and reflected off her emerald-green scales as she stole my hope and disappeared into the morning. My muse had left me with nothing but a crumpled paper bag and the remnant of my inspiration in a smouldering pile of ash.
