by Tabatha Kiss
I respectfully bow my head. “Thanks, Mom.”
“And then maybe you can sit down and tell me more about this nameless muse of yours,” she adds before retreating out into the hallway.
I bite my tongue as I listen to the soft tapping of her sandals echoing down the stairs. Once she’s gone, I tighten my grip on my guitar, ready to submerge myself all over again. A quick strum or two and I’m…
I flatten my finger against the strings, silencing them as that word repeats in my head.
Muse.
My nameless muse.
To be honest, I’ve never believed in that kind of thing. The difference between artists who made it and artists who didn’t is that the former didn’t sit on their asses and wait for inspiration to strike. They chased it down with torches and pitchforks and pillaged it until there was nothing left. And then they did it again and again until the world knew their name.
But…
I’m not against a game of what if every once in a while.
What if I do have a muse?
What if my days of pillaging inspiration have come to an end and universe has stepped in as if to say, “Great job, Jo. We’ll take it from here.”
“By the way, have you met Marla Gorchinsky?”
It’s her, right? The nameless muse?
The adorable redhead behind the counter with the deep dimples and thick thighs?
What if she’s the one who lit my spark?
What if she’s the reason I’ve been up all night, writing and strumming until my fingertips burned?
What if I wake up tomorrow and can’t do it again?
I pluck my E-string once, twice, three times as I stare off at the blank wall ahead of me.
What if?
After a few more hours of strumming and a quick lunch with Mom, I head back to my room on the 25th floor of the Botsford Plaza with my guitar case in hand, feeling very eager for a nap.
As I step into the lobby, I raise my head instead of looking down to obscure myself and scan the front desk for that red hair but then I remember that it’s two in the afternoon.
Marla is the night desk girl.
Rian the day desk boy is there instead, smiling and customer servicing the shit outta anybody who comes up. He spots me and juts his chin in my direction. I jut back. Very manly indeed.
Still, I find myself peeking around him and double-checking for red hair as the elevator doors close.
I’ll try again tonight. If she really is my muse then there’s only one way to know for sure.
I stumble onto my bed and nuzzle my face into the fluffy, white pillow as I stretch out my stiff, sore fingers. As I start to drift off, my—
My phone rings in my pocket.
Goddammit.
I fish it out, barely moving my body as I flip it over to read the screen.
Ira.
A moment of hesitation before I reluctantly accept. “What?” I ask.
“Hey, little bro,” he says. “Was that you I just saw in the lobby?”
“Yeah.” I prop up on an elbow. “Oh, hey, I feel like there was something I had to talk to you about.”
“Dinner on Wednesday, right?”
I snap my fingers. “That was it!”
He laughs. “You still coming?” he asks.
“Yeah. Wait, shit. I told Mom I’d have dinner at the house on Wednesday.” I shake my head to scold myself. “I should really get an assistant or something.”
“Or use a planner instead of the back of your hand like a normal adult person, Jo.”
I spot the faded ink on the back of my hand and sneer. “Right…”
“No worries. This a private mommy-baby thing or can I invite myself over?”
“Invite away, man. Bring my favorite niece while you’re at it.”
“Will do. She misses you.”
I perk up. “Really?”
“I mean, she’s four months old so probably not, but maybe. Could be a thing. Who knows?”
“Eh, I’ll take it and now I’m going to sleep. I’m exhausted.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Been up all night, have you?”
“I have.”
“Constant interruptions? Barely enough time to eat or sleep or thoroughly clean yourself?”
I pause in confusion. “Kind of, but not really—”
“No, wait,” he says. “That’s me. Because I have a four-month-old baby at home.”
“Hey, man. That’s what you get for having all that casual, premarital sex.”
“Babies happen whether you’re married or not, little bro.”
“I haven’t had a scare yet,” I tease.
“Yeah, I thought so, too.”
I freeze. “Well, that’s unsettling.”
Ira chuckles. “See you on Wednesday. I’ll run it by Mom first but I don’t see her turning down a night with the grandkid.”
“All right. Bye, Ira.”
“Bye, Jo.”
I hang up and let my phone flop out of my hand as I embrace the cool pillows beneath my head again. Sleep overwhelms me quickly but it’s over as soon as it begins, or so it feels.
I roll over onto my back and stare at the dark ceiling. The night sky shimmers with various colors, reflecting city lights from all angles toward my windows.
Something hard digs into my hip. I reach for it, finding my phone and clicking it on to check the time.
Just after nine o’clock.
Night shift is officially on.
I sit up quickly and plant my feet on the floor. After a quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up, I board the elevator and take it down to the lobby as a sprinkle of anticipation trembles my gut.
I hum my new song to myself on the way down. I can’t get over the thrill of it. Every note, every word. It’s got that New Song smell all over it and I’d like nothing more than to roll down the windows and belt it out into the desert at ninety miles-per-hour.
Under normal circumstances, I’d keep this close to the chest. Artists don’t usually like to broadcast what they’re working on to just anybody, at least not until it has hit a certain stage. Not quite new but not yet complete, somewhere deep in the middle where it’s still something. This track isn’t there yet but I can’t kick the thought that I just need to share it with her.
My nameless muse. Marla the night desk girl.
I step off the elevator before the doors are fully open, accidentally knocking shoulders with a woman waiting to step on — a woman practically dripping with my type wearing a tight, red skater dress and knee-high black boots.
“Sorry,” I tell her as I sidle away. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
Her expression shifts from annoyance to blatant intrigue as soon as she looks up at me but I don’t have time for this right now. I continue walking away, beelining toward the front desk and scanning behind it for that tuft of ginger hair.
There’s a different girl standing behind the desk with a curtain of straight, black hair cascading down over her left shoulder. She types into her terminal with the desk phone receiver perched on her shoulder, her heavily-manicured nails making it difficult for her to keep up.
“Yes, sir,” she says as I step closer. “Uh-huh. … Absolutely, we’d be happy to accommodate you.”
She makes eye contact with me and gives me a standard one moment please smile. I nod and crane my neck to look behind her beyond the front desk, trying to get a peek into the back hallway offices.
After a minute, she drops the phone back onto its cradle and turns to me. “How can I help you, sir?” she asks me.
“You’re new here.” I extend my hand. “I’m Jonah. Botsford boy number four.”
She gasps and shakes my hand. “Oh, cool! I’m Julie.”
“Nice to meet you, Julie.”
“I’ve met all but number two now,” she says, smiling wide.
“Well, give it a week or so. We all kinda live here. Hey,” I clear my throat and point over her shoulder, “is
Marla back there? I need to talk to her.”
She blinks twice. “Marla?”
“Yeah, the usual night desk girl.” I extend a hand, hovering just beneath my chin. “About this tall. Red hair. Cheeks like a sugar plum fairy.”
“Sir…” She goes serious. “No one named Marla has worked here in over fifty years…”
A chill rushes down my spine. “What?”
She snorts. “I’m just joshin.’”
I chuckle. “Okay, you’re very likable. Well done.”
“Thank you,” she says with a quick curtsy. “And, sorry. Marla’s not here.”
“Ah.” I twinge with disappointment. “Her night off, then?”
“No, she quit.”
My chest clenches. “Quit? When did she quit? She was here last night.”
“Well…” her eyes pinch, “if she was here last night and not today, then I’d say it happened last night.”
I groan softly, born from annoyance and confusion. Quit? Marla quit?
Was it something I said?
“Do you have an employee directory back there?” I ask Julie.
She nods once but quickly stops. “Why?” she asks.
“Can I see it? I really need to talk to her.”
Her eyes shift. “I’m… not really allowed to give out that kind of information.”
“Hey, I know.” I wave a hand and flatten it to my chest to show sympathy. “I used to work back there, too. But, trust me, it’s cool. She won’t mind. Oliver won’t mind. I’m one of the B-boys, remember?”
She hesitates a little more. “I don’t know…”
“Please? Pretty please?”
“Look, it’s my first night alone back here and I don’t feel comfortable breaking protocol like that. You can ask Ira?” she suggests.
I deflate. Yeah, there’s no way I’m asking that gossipy bitch for a girl’s number. I can only imagine what he’d do with that information.
I catch sight of Rian across the lobby at the entrance to the bar and a light switch flicks in my head.
“Never mind,” I say to Julie. “It was all a test and you passed. You’re doing great.”
She folds her hands and smiles. “Thank you.”
I flash her a wink of reassurance and spin around to follow Rian’s path into the bar. I find him casually leaning on one elbow at the counter as he talks to Doc.
“Rian!” I say over the hum of voices as I step inside.
He turns his head and gives me that same chin jut as before. “Hey, Jo. What’s up? Wanna get drunk?”
“Uh…” I eye the two beers Doc sets down in front of him. “Maybe later. You’re in my dad’s work-study program, right?”
He nods as he drops a debit card on the counter. “Yes, I am. Why?”
“And Marla’s in that program, too?” I ask.
“She is.” His eyes narrow. “Why?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have her number, would you?”
“I might.” He squints so tightly the whites of his eyes disappear. “Why?”
Doc hands the debit card back to Rian and lingers in place as he eavesdrops on the conversation.
“It’s not what you guys think,” I say. “I was chatting with her last night and I needed to follow-up with her about something.”
“About what?” Doc asks.
“Yeah, Jo. About what?” Rian repeats, the edges of his lips curling as he slides his phone from his pocket.
I chuckle out loud to stall until I can think of a reason other than, ‘Well, see, I think she’s my muse so I just need her, okay?’
I need her?
I need her.
“I need her,” I say by accident.
Rian and Doc regard each other with suspicion.
“I mean…” I exhale. Fuck it. “I need her because I wrote a song last night after talking to her so now I think she might be my muse so I’d really like to talk to her again. Her number, please?”
Doc steps back. “Okay. Forget I asked,” he says as he turns away to help a woman down the bar.
Rian swipes his phone a few times with his thumb and nods. “Gorchinsky, Marla,” he reads before setting the phone on the bar and pushing it toward me. “Your muse?”
I snatch the phone before he can take it back and grab my own from my pocket. “I dunno. Maybe.”
“I figured you just wanted to bang her or something.”
“Nah,” I say as I add her to my contacts. “We’re just friends.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Well, I haven’t banged you.”
“Yet.”
I laugh and give his phone back. “Thanks, Rian.”
He raises his beer to me. “Good luck with your muse.”
I rush out of the bar without a response to that.
Six
Marla
I take a soft step backward, being extra careful not to let my toes dig too much into the hardwood floor. One little noise, just a simple creek in the floorboards is all it’ll take to rustle the boys and I’ve spent the last hour reading the same story over and over again trying to get them to fall asleep.
Another step back toward the door. And another. Soon, I’ll be free. Soon, we’ll have a wall between us and I’ll be able to get a little studying done, hopefully.
I finally reach the hallway and inch the door closed behind me. It clicks closed and I brace myself with my ear to the door, praying that sound wasn’t enough to wake them. Thankfully, I hear nothing but silence.
I exhale hard as I turn away and make my way down the hall to my room. Mom leaped at the chance to cover a late-night shift at the diner and won’t be home for another three hours or so. That gives me enough time to study a few chapters for my Hospitality class tomorrow, assuming my brothers don’t wake up.
The silence splits in two, interrupted by my ringtone. I startle at the loud song and reach for my phone in my back pocket, quickly flicking the switch on the side to make it go silent. It continues rumbling in my hand as I turn back toward the boys’ room. A few seconds pass and the door stays closed. Good.
I close my bedroom door behind me and turn the phone face up to find out who nearly ruined the rest of my quiet evening.
Unknown caller.
Wonderful.
I hit accept, ready to snap at whoever it is.
“Hello?” I answer just above a whisper.
“Marla?” a male voice asks.
I keep half of my attention on the hallway. “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Where are you?”
I furrow my brow, growing more annoyed. “Who wants to know?”
He laughs, the sound sparking a sudden charge up my spine. “You can’t tell?” he asks. “And here I thought you were a fan.”
I instantly drop down onto the edge of my bed. “Jonah?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, still laughing.
I set my other hand down to steady myself just in case I tumble over. “Hi,” I say, my voice spiking. “What, uh... what’s up?”
“Well, I came down from my room to talk to you tonight and the new girl said you quit.”
I nod slowly. “You came down to talk to me?”
“Yeah, but you quit. What’s that about?”
“Oh, I just... needed to focus on school, that’s all.”
“It wasn’t me, then?”
“No,” I say. “Not at all. I put in my notice weeks ago.”
“Oh, cool. Thought maybe I said something.”
My lips twitch. “You didn’t.”
“Good. Hey, so, where are you right now?”
I glance around my bedroom. “I’m at home,” I answer.
“You think you can come to the hotel?”
My breath hitches. “Hu-ah?”
“I’m working on a song but I need opinions. Figured you’d be a willing and eager ear.”
I dig my fingers deeper into my blanket. “You want me to...”
I can’t even finish the sentence. I’m not sure what’s even
happening right now.
“Hotel bar?” he asks. “Twenty minutes?”
I squeak. Yes. Yes. Say yes. I know you’re shy and super introverted but this is Jonah freakin’ Botsford you’re talking to here.
“Ye—ah,” I sputter. “Yeah, I can— shit.” I stop.
No. No, I can’t.
I have to stay with my brothers.
“You can shit?” Jonah repeats, amused.
I cringe. “No. I mean... I can’t meet you at the bar. My brothers are three and I’m the only one here, so... I can’t.”
“Oh, you’re babysitting?” he asks, sounding genuinely disappointed.
I can’t go meet Jonah Botsford at a bar and he’s disappointed about it.
What the fuck is happening?
“Right.” I swallow hard. “Sorry.”
“No, that’s all right. Actually, hold on...”
The phone shuffles in his hands before dropping onto a soft surface. I hear him shifting around the room before he sits down and my chest leaps a bit as I hear the flick of a guitar string.
“Let me play you this bit,” he says, obviously on speakerphone. “Tell me what you think.”
Oh, my god.
Jonah doesn’t wait for my response. Within a second, he’s playing and another second after that he’s humming along with the melody and another second after that… I stop breathing.
Each note washes over me like a shot of good whiskey. My earlobe tingles next to the phone, steadily climbing down my cheek to my lips as they form a gentle smile.
I need to lie down.
I shift slowly and carefully, refusing to make a single sound as I lay down and close my eyes. There’s nothing else, nothing in all the world except this stream of notes flowing from his lips to my ear. The weight of the moment crushes me; just the mere thought that I may be one of the first people to ever hear this.
I drown in goosebumps. His voice, dry yet slaking. His words, pointed yet ambiguous in ways I can’t describe. My lips part on their own, perhaps in some futile attempt to give the butterflies in my tummy a chance to escape this pleasing torment.
And before I know it, it’s over. I lie still and stare at my ceiling, radically unable to do anything else.
“Marla?” he asks. When I don’t answer, he snickers and my toes twitch. “Mar-la?”
