A Dinner Invitation

Note: This week's writing challenge was to write an argument from the point of view of your muse. Some writers' muses are actual people. Some of us are weird and make up our own. Mine is Maynard, a chain-smoking wino, who, as I learned while writing this, is a lot more complicated than he looks. (He's not Columbo. He's younger, but Columbo-esque.)

It has already stopped snowing when she remembers I am outside. I hear the back door open and the screen slam behind her, perceive her quick gasp as the frigid air pours itself into her. I am sitting on the swing. When I rise as she approaches, there is a bare spot on the snow-covered cushion. I have been there all night. This is what I do for fun.

I stand and rise to almost my full height--I never seem to get rid of that slouch. I can't see her eyes in the dark, only the fiery orange dot of my lit cigarette. But I can still glare at her. It is my favorite expression, perhaps the only one I have.

"Maynard, do I have to tell you every time?" she says. "Put it out."

I pinch the cigarette between two fingers and drop it into the snow. It hisses and goes out. She has no say in this relationship, except for that. In all areas other than smoking, I am the boss. I make the rules.

I follow her into the house. It's warm but too bright. My intense glare loses some of its power when I squint.

"Take off your coat."

I shake my head, and a drift of snow lands on the carpet, melting instantly. My trench coat is my armor, and not against the cold. She has never understood this.

She leads me to the living room. A log burns in the fireplace, and she offers me a seat. My stoicism cracks, and I hold my hands in front of the flames. It was rather cold out there.

"Want something to eat?" she asks me. "I made pork stir-fry. The spices in it will warm you right up."

I tilt my head, which passes for a nod. We have known each other long enough that she has learned all of my signals. I stare into the fire while she goes into the kitchen to fix me a plate.

She hands me a plate of food. Steam rises from the meat and vegetables, as if she had just cooked it for me. But I know better.

For the first time since we have met, I remove my hat in her presence. I don't know what impulse leads me to do it. If my coat is my armor, then my hat is my helmet. It's a scruffy Magnum P.I. hat, the black and gold lettering partially obscured by snow. Mag--P.I. I smile. Magpie.

I eat slowly and deliberately. Her eyes widen, I can only assume in surprise. After all, she has never seen me eat before. She sees only my worn and stained trench coat, nicotine-yellow fingertips, and the telltale red nose of a heavy drinker. She believes me to be the vagrant I am dressed as. I enjoy the shock on her face when I delicately slice up a large piece of broccoli. She must have been expecting a caveman, shoveling food into his mouth with his hands.

Desperation. It is the only thing that could cause her hospitality to extend to me. She does not like me. That suits me. I am not likeable, and I don't like her either. I don't feel that she deserves me, but that is hardly a unique position. We all share the same disregard for the people we must help.

She bows her head, presses her hands between her knees. "I-I'm sorry," she says quietly. "Sometimes I just forget."

I am moody, and she has brought me into her house on the down swing. I open my mouth to snap at her, but a piece of carrot falls out, and I am mortified. She pretends not to notice. I count to ten, something my teacher told me to do when I lose patience. Most days, I have to go way past ten before I have calmed down, but tonight the food soothes my temper.

I set my plate aside and cross the room in one stride. She draws back, but I reach out and touch her face. It startles her. She blinks. Closing my eyes, I caress her cheek and fill her head with visions. Kaleidoscope fragments, hazy dreams, forgotten jewels. She sighs, leaning into my touch. All is forgiven.