The grumpy muse

She plonked the teapot on the table and tried to sneak off when I grabbed her hand: „Stick around a bit.“ I said „I just cooked up a new story: The Cheerful Muse.“

„What’s it about?“ she asked, dropping into the seat next to me.

„A writer and his muse.“ I grabbed her left thigh until she shoved my hand away in pain.

„Oh, total cliché,“ she said, glancing at my screen where her reply was typed: „… so bloody clichéd.“

„Nah.“ I ruffled her thick, black hair. „It’s about a committed artist and his muse. She emboldens him to take on fascism.“

„Oh, sounds like some 68er liberation crap,“ she sneered.

„Maybe…“ I took her hand and kissed it up to her elbow. „Erich Fromm wrote something similar. About masochistic urges, feelings of worthlessness, helplessness, and… what was it again?“ I flipped through The Fear of Freedom by Fromm. „… individual insignificance.“

„Sounds dull. Psychoanalytic waffle about authoritarian families and societies. Our lit professor bored us to death with that.“

She stood up to leave. I patted her plump right cheek. „Hold up! Fromm reckoned the urge to degrade yourself and bow to outside forces ties into sadism. It stems from our urge to be dependent, exploited, and… yeah, to enjoy the suffering. I feel we could weave that into a story against looming fascism.“

„The bill. The credit card one. You were supposed to sort it. We’ve got another reminder.“

I stroked her belly and pulled her close. She didn’t budge. „What can we throw at the creeping destructive power of fascism if not our stale creativity?“

„Even at uni, those lines didn’t impress me,“ she said flatly.

„Yeah, yeah. That philosophy prof was way smoother. Us poli-sci types just scraped up the leftovers.“ I pressed her slim hand to my lips.

„Sounds almost like Saul Bellow,“ she smirked.

„Nah, too lazy for that. But I’ve got this…“ I slid my hand deep into her underwear.

„What about the parent-teacher night? Are we going together?“ She pushed me off.

„Story’s done. Read it!“ I shoved the printed pages at her.

„The Grumpy Muse!? Oh, screw you!“ she snapped, slamming the door behind her.