I watch the drizzle pepper her upturned cheeks as she twirls around the garden. Her sodden dress clings like skin to her curves. Like an innocent child, she is uninhibited. She is beautiful, free, hopeful.
From the isolation of my third story room, I cannot hear her music. It is an idyllic melody of my mind that compels her, an illusion of what I can never be. As darkness descends, my dancing figment, the dead part of me, slips back into the murky recesses of the koi pond, and I draw the curtains on my lonely hideaway from the world.
For the last four days, my husband has been out of town, and I’ve had writer’s block. I stared at my computer screen with a blank mind. I wrote a few lines and deleted them. I reread some previously written stories and hated them. My husband came home this afternoon and this story poured onto the page.
Clearly, my husband is my inspiration, so I’m dedicating this story to him. Thank you, Dan! We still make beautiful music together.