“I have a one-story deficit,” he said, after a long, slow breath. “And I don’t know if I can ever catch up.”
“You want story, Engleesh?” she asked, swaying her smooth brown thighs. “Me inspire you long time.”
He looked at her, promise mixed with tainted youth and betel nut. Any temptation he felt to hire the muse dissolved in the humid heat.
He waved her away and signaled the bartender for another shot of arak.
He felt a brush of warm lips on the back of his neck. He knew those lips. It couldn’t be!
Something rose inside of him he never thought he’d know again, a joy he almost didn’t recognized.
He swiveled and cried, “Melete!”
But it was the same muse he’d brushed away.
“Who is Me-Light, Engleesh?” she asked. “You want me be your Me-Light?”
“No!” he yelled out, loud enough for the whole bar to pause.
The thick, bald bouncer looked directly at the writer.
He took another breath and shrugged his apologies, arms and hands up, and ordered arak for the house.
Scowls turned to cheers. The muse grabbed his arm and felt his belt buckle.
“I tell you story you never hear before, Engleesh. Inspire you long time.”
He raised his glass for another. “Like I said, I have a one-story deficit.”