His Muse
by Mary Potts
Rated PG just to be safe.
This fic is so old...
(How old *is* it?)
It's so old, my Beta had to quit to go build an Ark.
*rim-shot*.
Actually, this wasn't beta'd. I don't know how long this has been on my hard-drive, either; maybe 3 years. While this isn't technically angst, it is kind of moody, though. At least I think so, anyway... I guess you could call it FFAW. It's been a WIP for a long time, until I finally decided to just post it as a vignette and see what happens.
________________________________________________
He'd been taking notes, like a good boy, when suddenly, he noticed it---a blank spot. A bare, untouched portion of the paper, tucked away between two paragraphs about sources and interviewing tactics. It lay spread out before him, singing to him, drawing him in. His pencil abbandoned whatever word it had been writing and floated up to the naked patch of paper. As if of its own accord, it began to etch a delicate, curved line.
The line begged for a companion, a beautiful wispy line like itself. He obliged it. Soon, he realized that it wasn't a "line" at all. It was a leg. The leg rose up into the torso of a girl. A woman. An *angel*.
His muse.
Her body was facing him--her legs drawn up to shield her torso from his gaze, her ankles crossed, her arms clasped protectively around her knees. Her head was turned away, though. Her face was forlorn, and a little lost. Her wings were neatly folded behind her. They seemed to sag a little, as though she and they knew that they would never be used, that they would never taste true flight, that---
"Mr. Kent."
John's head snapped up to meet his proffesor's gaze. "Yes sir?"
Proffesor Taylor's eyes briefly flicked down to the drawing, then came back up to John. "Would you step outside for a moment with me, please?"
"Um, of course." John closed his notebook and rose from his desk. The other students were busy working or else packing up to take an early break. Either way, they didn't seem to notice John following the teacher out into the hall.
"John," his proffesor began once they were both in the hallway outside the classroom, "Even though you're not actually failing, your grades are pretty low. The lowest in the whole class, in fact. Given your family's background, I'm surprised." He looked at John, his eyes soft with concern. "You might want to consider dropping the course."
John shook his head. "No! I'm sorry, sir. I'll try to do better..."
"John," His proffesor sighed. "You're very bright, and I can tell you're not a lazy student. You're obviously not averse to hard work." He gestured to the wall they were standing infront of. "But I'm getting the impression that journalism just doesn't appeal to you."
John squirmed a little, and his proffesor turned to view the wall more clearly.
"On the other hand, you show an incredible talent for art. I've spoken with our art director, Miss Stratford, and she's willing to help you get a scholarship, should you decide to switch majors..."
"I can't!" John's gaze locked with the Proffesor's. "I can't. My parents... I just can't."
"John," the proffesor said softly, "we're talking about saving you lots of time, money, and most of all, talent!"
John just shook his head. "I can't. Look, Proffesor Taylor, art is just a hobby. Really. Just something I picked up on a visit to my grandmother's house one day."
The proffesor sighed. "Very well. The desicion, of course, is yours. But, I do think you're wasting your time here." With that, he turned and walked back into the classroom.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When John got home that afternoon, he immediately set about removing everything from his kitchen/dining/living room, except for one low table and a chair. He removed the cloth from the table and set a good-sized piece of ply-wood on the table-top. By five minutes until four, he was closing the blinds and fussing with the lights.
At four-o-clock, he heard steps outside his apartment door. A key was inserted in the lock, and the knob turned. The door was pushed open, and a girl with chesnut curls bustled into the room, kicking the door closed and tossing her purse onto the floor.
John grinned at her. "Hi, Gloria!"
Gloria flashed him a brief smile as she stepped out of her shoes and began unbuttoning her coat. "Hi John. You wouldn't believe the day I've had!" She worked the last few buttons and slid the coat off her shoulders. "First of all, Martin had the car." She hung the coat on a nearby hook, then reached for the buttons of her blouse. "He just took off with it completely unannounced. Typical! I think he and his friends went camping or something, so they'll be gone for a couple of days. Man, brothers are annoying! You should be grateful you're an only child." After working the last button and hanging the blouse next to her coat, she began to undo her belt. "I thought about calling you and having you fly me here, but the batteries in my cellphone died." Tossing the belt by her purse, she wriggled out of her jeans and then reached around her back. "Lewis was on the house phone, of course, so I couldn't get you that way," she finally found and manipulated the hook on her bra, and it joined her belt and purse. "And I didn't have any change for a pay phone. So I started walking and managed to catch a bus downtown." She peeled off her socks and undergarments, and crossed the room towards the table. "From there," she said as she climbed onto the tabletop and perched on the plywood, "I managed to get a cab to take me here. So, how was your day?"
"Fine."
Gloria raised an eyebrow. "Fine? You don't sound fine. What's wrong."
"Nothing. Could you bring your knees up to your chest please?"
Gloria sat up, drawing her legs up infront of her and hooking her arms around them. "John?"
John sighed. "Well, Proffesor Taylor said I could get a scholarship."
"That's great!" Gloria exclaimed.
"Cross your ankles." John walked up to her and began adjusting her arms and hands slightly. "It's only if I become an art major, though."
"Even better!"
"Gloria..."
"John, you are an artist," Gloria snapped, "whether you want to admit it or not!"
"Gloria, it's just a hobby!"
Her eyes narrowed. "Just a hobby. Is that all it really is? Just a hobby? Am *I* 'just a hobby'?"
"No!" John hastened to reassure her. "You're not 'just a hobby'! I love you! You're my *life*!"
Gloria leaned back slightly and seemed to study him. "I'm your life."
John nodded.
"I'm your life," she repeated, "and you've drawn me hundreds of times. You've never *interviewed* me once."
John opened his mouth to argue, but quickly gave up. "Gloria," he sighed.
She gave him a challenging look.
John raked a hand through his hair. "Look. Both of my parents are reporters. My dad especially has made it perfectly clear he's hoping I'll follow in his footsteps! Both sets," he grumbled.
"But John, you've been sketching since you were five!"
"Lots of five-year-olds draw and color," John defended. "Besides, it doesn't matter. As far as they're concerned, I was a star reporter before I was even born." He sighed. "I just don't want to be a *complete* disappointment."
Gloria's gaze turned sympathetic, and she traced a hand down his cheek. "Oh, John..."
"Let's just do this right now. Okay?" He returned her hand to its proper position, and made some adjustments to her posture. Taking her chin in his hand, he gently turned her head away, coaching her on her facial expression. Then, he sat down in the chair across the room, grabbed his sketchbook and a piece of charcoal, and started to block her onto a fresh piece of paper.
Her body was facing him, her legs drawn up to sheild her torso from his gaze, her ankles crossed, her arms wrapped protectively around her knees. Her head was turned away, her expression forlorn and a little lost...
~*~
