I’m a writer and prone to succumb to the usual challenges of living the solitary life of an artist and that includes struggling to placate my Muse.
In my case, the inner conflict became ratcheted up a notch because despite my best attempts to resist Margaux’s seductive whispers I had surrendered—fallen in love with my own Muse who in my saner moments I viewed as a mere figment of my imagination and in my darker moments had to admit she was driving me quietly insane.
I needed to escape the confines of my loft in the Flatiron building and put some distance between Margaux and me.
Once out of the condo and down on street level, I reviewed my options—I could take a walk down Wellington Street in the rain, spend a glum half-hour staring at the now-silent fountain in the park, or grab a mug of draft in the pub.
The latter option prevailed, and conveniently, a Firkin Pub was located in the lower level of my building—a fortuitous perk of downtown living that I employed on occasion to console myself.
I hastened from the damp and cold into my retreat from life’s storms. Strangely, the usually boisterous taproom was virtually deserted.
Hmm…the rain, perhaps?
I took window booth and sat back, staring out at the street. A tired basketball game on TV provided a background hum, but I chose to gaze at the silvery static of rain, and allow my mind to drift away. Any port in a storm, I suppose.
Two hours later, I was well on my way to being pleasantly numb. Surprisingly, the bar had gradually filled up with patrons, fans from the basketball game who were now searching their celebratory drink.
“May I sit here?”
I looked up and my heart was in my throat—Margaux, I thought at first—but as I looked closely, saw it was her double, smiling benignly down at me.
“There’s no one else sitting here, is there?” she asked. She was a young, dark-haired girl with a sweet smile, and I liked her immediately.
“Please, sit down,” I said.
She shed her coat, draping it over the back of her chair. “So cold out there,” she smiled, “ but warm in here.”
I couldn’t agree more.
“You weren’t at the game?” I asked, half in jest, since I was certain she was not the type.
“Oh no,” she giggled, “ I was working late and the Go-train was delayed, so rather than wait on the platform I decided to have a drink.”
I caught myself , remembering my manners. “Oh, by the way, I should introduce myself—I’m Paul Bennett.”
“Ashley Moore,” she smiled, “but my friends just call me Ash. I work in the Toronto-Dominion Bank Tower.”
“Really? You’re not a banker are you?”
“Actually, I’m an investment banker—used to work in securities.”
I shook my head in amazement. “You certainly don’t look the type.”
“I get that a lot,” she laughed.
“Can you guess what I do?” I asked playfully.
She frowned with concentration, seeming to look into my soul. “Hmmm, I’d say you have something to do with the arts—an actor, no wait—a writer. Yes, definitely a writer, I’d say.”
I stared at her in disbelief.
She sipped at her wine. “Did I come close?”
“I’m afraid to ask you what I’m writing,” I joked.
“I’m sure you’re a novelist, but I can tell from your features, you’re not preoccupied with angst, so I’d guess you write romances.”
“That is very perceptive, I have to admit.”
I was mystified, totally fascinated—but also feeling quite intoxicated. If I stood up at that moment, I wasn’t sure I’d be steady on my feet.
But thankfully, I didn’t have to stand—Ash was a captivating conversationalist and I scarcely realized the time had fled until the wait staff began stacking chairs and turning off lights.
We got up to leave, and I was wavering back and forth like a tree in a high wind.
She looked concerned. “You don’t live far, do you?”
“Fortunately, I live upstairs, on the fifth floor.”
“You live here in the Flatiron building?” She looked awed.
“Would you care to see? It’s quite an impressive place.”
I stumbled against a table, and she took me by the arm and steered me toward the door. “I think it might be a good idea if I walked with you, “ she laughed.
Already, the night that had seemed a disaster was turning out better than I could have ever dreamt.