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Story Notes:

So apparently this is rather timely.




Author's Chapter Notes:

ficlet/prompt 




Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


I notice the pointed tips of his ears last. His skin is like living marble in the moonlight, taking on the bluish glow of the midnight sky. His nudity should seem obscene, but in my quiet suburban driveway, his body  is too otherworldly to be lubricious. Which isn’t to say that he’s not beautiful; he is. Sleekly muscled in the way only  swimmers and dancers  are, all smooth lines and grace. His bare feet don’t seem to touch the concrete, and his hair dances about his shoulders in multicolored disarray. Fire red, semisweet chocolate, pine green, storm gray, platinum blonde, wheat gold. Shifting with each step as he reaches forward with that damn note to put it on my winshield. It seems ludicrious, such an act. What use would such a man have to do with paper and pen? But here he is, looking like some cosmic meter maid, leaving me my nightly ethical citation.

I should call the police. Naked prowlers could be dangerous, especially tall white men with multicolored hair. But for all his weirdness, I don’t feel in danger, just sad somehow. This poor thing, naked in the cooling autumn night, thinks I’ve betrayed him. Me, wife and mother, frustrated writer.  I haven’t had time to think straight since the baby was born, much less time for intrigue. “You betrayed me.” The only thing I’ve betrayed is my hairstylist, who I quit calling. Pampers trump bimonthly salon visits. Motherhood has its price, after all.  I reach for my phone, still peeking at him from behind the blinds downstairs, safe in my normalcy.

 He tucks the note under my wiper blade. And it isn’t until he kisses the fingers of his left hand and places it on the front of the letter that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I try to suck the exhalation back into my mouth, which is ridiculous.

But then he turns and looks toward me. Into me. With eyes as black as an empty screen. As fathomless as what I see when I close my eyes to escape the need to write. As deep as a dreamless sleep.  I think of my house, my job, my family. And then I think of sleepless, joyous nights, writing. Afternoons spent daydreaming. The joy of a new idea. The excuses. The shrug and empty promise of writing later, when I have time.

I never have time.

My muse says nothing. He never has to. He gives that little shrug I know so well, and turns and walks away, back down my quiet suburban street, back into the night. And the truth of those three little words settles in me, deep where I keep the little slivers of what I was before I was a wife or mother.

 

That night, I dream of multicolored hair and pointed ears. 












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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.