his muse…



“She liked him because he was an artist and different from her husband. He wrote. He said he was a writer. He felt. He listened. He had a sheaf of scruffy papers in a corner and he told her she was his muse. She was. He wrote love poems inspired by her. He would read them to her and she would pretend to listen. He liked how she was filled with the Holy Spirit. He wasn’t. And she felt all kinds of conflict from it all. The pastor had preached his courtship gospel and laid his holy hands on her and told her she would have a husband. She had. And yet here she was, with the heathen tenant next door gently sticking it in, assessing how touched she was by the Holy Spirit. What he felt for her was like love but without the softness and the ceremony. She made him feel more – and there was feeling where there had never been. He felt fired up and a rush of inspiration – he could feel the heat coursing through his veins when he imagined her. The possibility of her put him on edge. His feelings for her were shocked into him on that night – the night her husband came home and took her against their kitchen door – the tenant knew this and it made him lust for her.”


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