He glanced up in surprise and saw that the sun was flooding through the gap in the heavy curtains. Dawn was here and he had worked all the way through the night in a vain attempt to complete this work of fiction of his. These words taunted him, in the dim lamplight. They should have lain imaginatively on the page before him and yet, in his own perfectionist mind, they lacked the refinement that a polished work of his should have.
He sighed and stood up, letting the chair scrape along the wooden floor, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room with an ugly sound. The efforts of that frustrating night deserved ugly sounds he thought. On reflection these tawdry paragraphs had really not been worth any of those moments on tense agonising over the correct word or the dabbling with the right inflexion in the weaker prose.
He was so tempted to reach out for the delete button and to erase the whole fearful work from his machine at one fell swoop. He frowned and reached forward, but a gentle hand wrapping round his wrist stopped him. She smiled a little uncertainly at him and shook her head silently.
After looking at her grimly for a moment he shrugged, as if to disown the typed words. They were not his - they belonged to the wretched machine. It was not as if he had crafted them lovingly with a scratching quill through the night, as once he would have done.
There again he had managed to write so much more than he would ever have managed without it and quantity was one of the things lacking in his previous terse, if appreciated style. No matter how many reams he got through they always seemed to clamour for more, impatiently craving metaphors and similes to entertain and delight.
And all the time she was there for him, silent and yet, appreciative of his efforts, enjoying his success and drinking in the way that he had grown with each published work. She had delighted in taking on this unassuming supportive role and in calming him when the creative vice became too tight for him, calming him with tea and sympathy.
The literary parties that he delighted in were really not her style. She was , however, always been prepared to play the hostess, listening demurely and, encouraging the seemingly sophisticated discussion, with a nod of her head. As the gathered gentlemen laughed loudly at some jest, they would stop their raucous noise in awe to see her smile turn to disapproval, like the sun hiding behind a cloud.
She had a power in her that astounded even the coarsest mouth. It was a strength that she used with care and control, yet it was one that she could exercise without uttering a syllable. She liked the fact that he accepted her silence without complaint and as such exercised that silent authority in support of him.
It made her anxious, however, when she caught him looking at her slowly shaking his head as if she were one of his works, half-formed and incomplete. They both knew that, until they had enough money earned from his works, he would never hear those dulcet tones. No matter how much her silence inspired him for the present. Should she feel grateful for his nightly efforts on her behalf? Was it really enough to be there for him, when the frustrations of his literary aspirations overwhelmed him?
She could always sense the dawn light in her dreams and listened for the nuances in the air that indicated whether he had had a successful night. She would know instinctively if he were troubled by the confusions of his text and she would come to him, floating, swathed in silk down the corridor to his study.
She knew the excess of anxiety that led him to wander round the room, pacing and holding his head in his hands. She knew exactly when to reach out to take his wrists in a gentle handcuff of her soft flesh. She would take his hands prisoner temptingly close to the swell of her bosom, so as to prevent him from that self-destructive trait, that urge to press that wretched delete button.
He would relax into the lissome, perfumed form before him, enjoying the sweet fragrances that emanated from her body and taking his mind off the struggles of the night. She watched the smile spread slowly back across his face and the frown disappear.
She knew that with a new day came new hope and the chance for them to regale in one anothers company again. There again the celebration of the day would be dimmed by the tiredness of his all-night battle with his keyboard. The brief interlude of the quiet that the two of them might share through their afternoon together.
No matter where they wandered arm in arm. From every angle the gardens spread before them would seem flawed by the fact that the afternoon would soon give way to dusk and another noisy evening soiree. Again she would have to exercise all her faculties and power to distract the competitors for his attention and affection. He never seemed to realise how hard she was fighting for him and for that special place by his side.
She wanted to convey that message to him now, but saw that his eyes were half closed with fatigue. Instead, in a replay of so many dawns of her stay with him she took his arm, propping up his tired body as she led the way across to the chaise-longue by the french windows.
She helped him to sit and then lie back onto the cream coloured cushions of this elegant piece of furniture. She was, as ever, silent and supportive, yet she knew that there could be more so much more to their life together.
Leaving the thick velvet curtains closed, she sat down at the desk, listening for a moment to his quiet breathing in the background. Then she set to work to ravel together the unkempt strands on the page before her, carefully crafting a work of wit and imagination for him to wake to. She recalled the cry of delight the first time that she had toyed with his ideas and smiled to herself, glad to be able to bring delight to him in this way, even if he imagined the source of it to have lain within him.
An hour later, she completed her editing and sighed at the humming machine, sharing her secret as she saved the work. She dimmed the lamp on the desk and slipped silently from the room, leaving him to dream of future successes and delights.
She was sure, however, that, as he lay in repose on the chaise-longue, he was not dreaming of her, but of some other delicious creature. Perhaps it was that wretched woman in her gold-lame gown, descending the main staircase to the enraptured gaze of all present.
Sometimes she felt like cinders at the ball in these circumstances, but knew exactly where to be when he reached up to take the arm of her usurper. He would look irritated at her unwanted intervention, but that his eyes would eventually melt at the soft warmth of her eyes. His eyes would meet hers and that elusive smile would return again as he dismissed the beauty from his mind.
She hoped that he realised that she was the special feature of that evening. If only that perfect moment could encapsulate all his feelings for her. If only she could be that really special feature of every evening of his life. She closed the door gently and brushed a tear of frustration from her eye. Then, turning towards the kitchen, she walked, silently as ever towards the kitchen to brew herself some coffee.
She would take the steaming cup with her to sit on the patio and look at the gardens that she so enjoyed in solitude or, preferably with him taking in her image and the verdant background for his next little creation. Perversely she liked to perch on the rather uncomfortable metal furniture.
The cool metal sent a delicious chill rising up from her thighs and lower back, rippling up her spine to an wonderful sense of a fixed reality that caused her to stretch. Her loose mane of hair shook and the strands trailed down over her shoulder. Such placid enjoyments gave her consolation as she sipped the lonely morning away.
She heard the letter box open and the cheery whistle of the postman. She managed to muster a smile as she bent to gather the mail, shuffling through the letters and giggling soundlessly at the postmarks from around the world. She loved this moment to herself, this opportunity to feast on the words of admiration from his - no their - fans. The morning would seem less lonely now that she had the gathered words of these distant aficionados to entertain her.
All their shy praise, their frustrated hopes and the heady mix of their aspirational desires gave her new strength to stay another day with him. She could wait another day, another week, another month for that moment when, even if they never gathered the resource for him to hear her at least once, he might eventually recognise that she was more than his silent muse. If she were there for another twenty four hours, silent and supportive, that special occasion might come, but could either of them really wait for ever?
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