Untitled Muse

It was a dark and stormy night, late in the month of June. The sky rife with heaving clouds, the moon shimmering faintly behind the whirls of nimbostratus. She was walking home from a party. Trying to hurry along on high heels, determined to beat the rain home. She'd spent quite a bit of time dolling up, and didn't want heaven’s tears to render her efforts even more fruitless than they already were. It'd been the first social occasion in months, and she'd been looking for the kill. Red lips accentuated her pale skin, and expertly drawn eyebrows brought out her twinkling eyes. Thick luscious wavy locks curled around her pronounced cheekbones.  A little black dress highlighted her voluptuous curves, and red-bottoms rounded out her obviously premeditated look. In short: she looked utterly stunning.

Even though every living being at the party had noticed her, none had had the guts to approach her. She’d spent most of her time there making small talk with acquaintances, and pretending to chuckle at pleasantries.  While she generally wasn’t much one for the lush, she’d indulged in a few cointreaupolitans, resulting in a pleasant buzz. None of those things had helped her achieve her goal, though. She needed intimacy, burningly. As usual, she’d been left empty handed. The worst part wouldn’t be the rising frustration she’d feel by herself in bed, later on. No, it’d be talking to her friends about it tomorrow. They still didn’t quite manage to grasp the fact that, being hauntingly beautiful is a huge obstacle when it comes to achieving physical relations. Most people simply became too overwhelmed with her appearance, and struck out before they even attempted to make a move.

In an effort to snap out of her increasingly frustrated psyche, she quickened her pace and focused on her surroundings. The gentle ambling of the Fyris managed to bring some modicum of solace, but took on the form of a bad omen concurrently. The sloshing of the river served as a reminder to the water above her, and she herself couldn’t quite afford to amble along the picturesque streets of Uppsala. Not if she was to enjoy her mirror image in full force upon making it home. So she maintained about a hundred and twenty clickety-clacks per minute, and let her gaze slide along the vivid ochre, red, and beige of the multi-storied buildings she passed by. A deep orange jolt of lightning in the distance redirected her attention. The interval between the visual spectacle and the familiar rumble of thunder a while later reassured her. She’d get to sit by her bedroom window and watch the show unfold, make-up and hairdo intact. Another explosion of plasma lit up the sky, and took her back to lightning storms past. There was something about the natural fierceness of these things that never failed to bathe her in awe. Happily distracted, she strode on and reached the entrance to her upscale loft minutes later.

Upon finding her keys, she unlocked and pushed open the massive double doors, took off her Louboutins, and dashed for the elevator on tip-toes. The familiar dinging sound let her know that she’d arrived at the top floor, and was finally home. She flung her handbag onto the white leather couch, put down her heels, and picked an empty glass up off the kitchen counter. After drawing some tap water, she hurried to her bedroom. She twirled in front of the oversized vertical mirror a few times and found herself thoroughly pleased with the image she produced. She slipped lazily out of her dress, remaining very much pleased with the woman in the mirror. After finding a suitable blanket, she nestled herself on the large window sill and watched the lightning storm outside unhurriedly reach culmination.