“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

The writer gave up. She had written about every subject she could think of. She had typed every word she knew. And now she removed her hands from the keyboard, from her pencil, from her writing.

She left her chair and made her way to the nearest window so she could watch the rain slide down the glass. And she could pretend the drops were alive and she could hear their delightful squeals—much like she used to daydream in the back seat of her mom’s car as a child.

As a particularly swollen drop made it’s way down, gathering other drops during its decent, the writer heard a voice.

“Inspiration comes from odd places sometimes,” said the Muse from the other side of the window.

The writer cast her eyes upwards, matching the gaze of her creativity. “I haven’t seen you in a long while, old friend.” The writer pushed herself away from the window and turned away. “I thought you had abandoned me.”

The Muse had taken a seat at the writer’s chair. Her long legs were crossed and her delicate hands sat upon her knee. “I could never abandon you.” The satin words flowed from her like perfumed oil. “I love you.”

Angry that the Muse had been absent for so long, but fighting with a tinge of delight at seeing her old friend, the writer had to turn away again. Through tight lips she attempted to growl, “Don’t leave me again.”

The writer slowly pivoted to glance at her Muse but her eyes locked on the now empty chair.

Full of ideas for the first time in months, the writer returned to her chair and the words flowed from her. Like perfumed oil.