Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

I stepped of the Rail and dropped down to street level. Anticipation quickened my steps. My presence triggered storefronts auto-advertisements causing neon signs to pop into view. Swatting off a nude model offering discount massages, I crossed a street gridlocked with cars. Bored drivers eyed me, jealous of my freedom.

Eve sat inside the fenced in patio of D. Hammett Hall, locally known as the Damn It All. I caught her in pieces as if seeing her all at once would overwhelm me. Skin like moonlight against a form hugging, high necked black sweater. Waves of blond. Slim fingers wrapped around a long cigarette holder.

Our eyes met.

With a cry of joy, she jumped up and launched herself into my arms. She impacted hard against my chest. As always I caught her and held her tight to me. Not once in six years had I ever let her fall. I always looked forward to this moment, her body against mine. I wasn't her husband and never would be but it didn't matter. It was a rare case where my love for her was enough for me.


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