As He's Written

"Write me."

The words whispered through Bethany's mind, separate from the strange, disjointed dreams of deep slumber. The voice was familiar, if indistinct. It touched something deeply held, a wish, a longing, an urgency that tugged at her and drew her to the surface of consciousness.

"Write me, Bethany."

The whisper drifted away as her eyelids fluttered then opened to the dark of night. Moonlight filtered in through the sheers covering the bedroom window, casting an eerie glow to the room and dimly illuminating its furnishings. The house was silent but for the sound of air whooshing from the ducts. Beside the bed, the red numbers of the alarm clock told her that it was just past five o'clock.

For long moments she lay there as her senses returned fully to the present. But the echoes of the whispers still resonated. Tonight wasn't the first time she'd heard them. She'd been hearing them in her sleep for months now, growing more frequent and insistent as time passed. She was at a loss as to what they meant.

As a writer, she was accustomed to waking in the wee hours when her muse badgered her to commit something to paper. Or the laptop, as the case may be. And she always obeyed the command. But the whisper was different. It wasn't born of creativity but seemed to come from some deeper realm within her. Somewhere closer to her spirit. "Write me." Write who?

With a sigh, she threw back the covers and sat up. After turning on the bedside lamp, she pushed her long brown hair out of her face before standing to pad from the bedroom down the hall to her office, a smaller room filled with books and posters of romantic book covers. Some even her own. Her desk sat limned in moonlight beneath the window. Reaching around the door, she flipped on the overhead light then crossed the room to take her seat in the well worn chair and opened up her laptop. As she watched a magnolia blossom fill the screen, an image began to take form in her mind. A man, devastatingly handsome as most of her heroes were, filled her imagination and she opened the word processing program, sat for a moment, then began to type.

"He is gorgeous in the way of the ancients. Tall and strong, with musculature developed by hard living rather than inside a gym. His hair is long and flaxen, falling below his shoulders, framing a clean shaven face almost terrible in its ageless beauty. His eyes are a brilliant green and his cheekbones are high. His mouth is sensuously sculpted and turned up slightly in a kind of arrogant humor. His name is..."

“Brenden.”

Crying out at the deep voice behind her, she whirled in the chair as her heart slammed against her breast and then began beating frantically as she struggled to catch her breath. There, just inside the doorway, stood the image from her mind, just as she had been describing him. Gloriously nude.

“Oh my god!”

Her words emerged in a breathless squeak as her blue eyes and mind tried frantically to take him all in.

“How...how...?”

“You summoned me,” he answered her unfinished question. “I am Brenden.”

“O-Okay,” she struggled to gather her wits. Strangely, she felt no real fear. “But where...?”

“Did I come from? From you. You wrote me.”

Again her eyes wandered over him then flew back to his face when they ventured too far southward for comfort.

“I did?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Impossible!”

“Yet here I am.”

Then the familiarity of his voice finally registered.

“I know you. Don't I? I've heard you before.” She turned her head slightly and eyed him warily. “Just tonight.”

He nodded slightly with a gentle smile. “Yes.”

She shook her head in confusion.

“I don't understand. Who, I mean, what are you?”

“I am a muse.”

Her mouth fell open in disbelief.

“A muse? My muse?”

“One of them.”

“One of them. Yeah. And, um, just how many of you are there? I thought there were only nine.”

“There are many of us. I am one of three for you.”

“But I thought the muse were female.”

“Not always.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to be,” he replied frankly, “but I could only come through you.”

“So you inspired me to, um, write you?”

“No, not precisely.” He paused. “I called to you. My inspiration was all yours.”

“So you're not really real.”

He grinned rakishly.

“Oh, yes. I'm quite real.”

She shook her head and ran her hands over her face, feeling herself blushing furiously.

“I'm not believing this.”

“Believe it, Bethany.”

Totally bemused, she eyed him across the room.

“Is this how you really, um, look?”

“Yes. You know this. You've known me for a long time.”

“Somehow I doubt that. My imagination isn't that good.”

He chuckled.

“You might be surprised.”

For a long moment they stared at one another before she finally rose to her feet.

“Don't you have any clothes?”

“No. They are not required where I come from.”

She ruefully shook her head.

“Well, they're pretty much required here.” Again she shook her head and muttered to herself, “Why didn't I describe you with clothes?”

“It would not have mattered. I came as I am.”

“As I described you.”

“As you saw me.”

“I didn't see you, uh, nude.”

“If that is what you wish to believe.”

She chuckled self mockingly as the heat rose further in her cheeks.

“Let's not go there.” Taking a deep breath, she finally accepted the reality of the moment and motioned to the doorway behind him. “Well, let's go see what I can come up with to do until I can get you some clothes.”

With a small, enigmatic smile, he stood to one side and allowed her to pass. She discovered he was even more overwhelming up close as his heat and scent assailed her remaining senses, so she slid past as quickly as she could before she succumbed to a need to touch him. Wherever.

After considering the contents of her linen closet, she dismissed a bed sheet-as-a-toga idea in favor of a brightly colored beach towel to wrap around his waist, thinking to herself that it would be criminal to hide that much perfection. Then she blushed again when she met his knowing gaze and received a roguish wink in response.

Once he was decently, if no less tantalizingly, covered, she led him down the hall to the kitchen, turning on lights as they passed. Glancing at the digital clock on the stove then out the kitchen window, she noted that the day was dawning. Had it really been that long since she got out of bed?

Grasping for some degree of normalcy, she turned to him and asked, “Do you, I mean, can you eat?”

“Yes, in this world.”

“Is there anything you don't eat?”

“Brussels sprouts.”

She couldn't help the very real laugh that emerged.

“Sounds good to me. I usually have eggs, bacon, and toast. Will that do?”

“Yes.”

She motioned for him to take a seat at the dinette then withdrew a skillet from a cabinet beside the stove and began assembling the ingredients for breakfast. Neither spoke as she worked, though she felt him intently watching her every motion and had to work hard not to fumble with the tongs and spatula. Finally, she carried their plates to the table before returning to pour them glasses of orange juice.

“I don't drink coffee,” she admitted apologetically.

“That is alright,” he replied and waited until she took her seat at the table and picked up her fork and knife. Only then did he join her in eating.

Somehow she made it to mid-morning before deciding to go purchase him some clothes. Looking him over she realized that she had no idea what sizes he wore. The only way she would know would be to measure him.

“Uh, Brenden?”

He looked up from where he had been perusing the latest issue of National Geographic.

“Yes?”

“I need to go out and find you some clothes.”

“That is fine.”

“But, uh, you wouldn't happen to know what sizes you wear, would you?”

He shook his head regretfully.

“No, I'm sorry.”

“Great,” she muttered to herself and closed her eyes against the inevitability. When she opened them it was to meet his twinkling green gaze, and again she found herself blushing. For heaven's sake! She was too old to be blushing like this! She strove for a matter of fact tone as she explained, "Then I'll need to measure you first.”

He merely nodded as she went to collect a note pad and the tape measure from her sewing box. When she returned he was waiting expectedly, once again nude.

“Oh dear lord!” She muttered, knowing it was unavoidable that she would have to stand close and touch him. In near record time she had the measurements she needed before wordlessly handing him back the towel.

“I'll be back as quickly as I can,” she told him as she slung her purse over her shoulder and hurried out the door.

In no time she returned with several bags filled with jeans, slacks, shirts, socks, and, thank God, underwear. Everything fit perfectly, though the jeans were a little too snug for her peace of mind. The shoes had been a challenge as she had nothing to go by for a size. So she had measured the length and width of his feet and did the best she could. Thankfully, she was close enough and now he stood before her in his snug jeans, black t-shirt, and running shoes. Good lord, but he was gorgeous! Before either could say anything, her cell phone rang and she rushed to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Bethany, my dear, how are you?” her agent, Janet, responded to her greeting.

“Uh, I'm fine, fine, Janet. And you?”

“Doing wonderfully. I was wondering if I might drop by there in a few? I'm sorry it's such short notice but seeing as I'm already nearby I thought it more expedient to bring the new contract by rather than for you to make a trip in to my office.”

Bethany's eyes flew to Brenden where he had resumed his seat and was now reading the day's newspaper.

“Well, actually, Janet. I have company right now...”

“This won't take but a moment, I promise. I'll just drop it off and you can read it over then get back to me.”

“Well...”

“Good! See you in a few. Ciao!”

She disconnected, leaving Bethany feeling as if she had somehow managed to fall down a rabbit hole.

Thirty minutes later, she was resignedly opening the front door to find a svelte, immaculately groomed Janet waiting with folder in hand. As usual, forty-year-old Bethany, plump and still dressed in the fleece outfit she had worn to town, felt like an aging ragamuffin in comparison.

“Come on in, Janet.”

“Morning, Bethany. Thanks for letting me stop...”

Her agent stepped inside with her usual high energy smile only to stop dead, her voice fading off, as she saw Brenden standing in the middle of the living room.

“Uh, Janet, this is Brenden. Brenden, my agent, Janet.”

For a moment, Janet stared wordlessly at him before turning a sly smile on Bethany.

“Well, well. Bethany, my dear. You've been keeping things from me.” Turning back to Brenden, she crossed the room with one hand extended. “Brenden, it's a pleasure to meet you.”

“My pleasure as well,” he responded as he shook her hand.

Contrary to her promise to keep her visit short, Janet plopped herself down in the chair and made herself comfortable. Left with little choice, Bethany asked if either would like something to drink and upon their refusals, took a seat on one end of the sofa. Brenden took the other.

“So, how long have you two known each other?” her agent asked shrewdly.

“Not long,” Bethany replied then groaned inwardly when Janet's smiled widened.

“It may take you a while, but you certainly move fast when you want to, don't you?” Turning her attention back to Brenden she asked, “What do you do, Brenden?”

“I'm a literary consultant,” he replied with a twinkling glance at Bethany.

“Now that's one I haven't heard before,” she said drolly. “And what exactly does a literary consultant do?”

“Janet!” Bethany interjected. “Is that the contract you want me to look over?”

Janet turned a knowing grin on her.

“Yes, it is. It's the standard publishing agreement as always. Just look it over and if you're agreeable, sign it and get it back to me by the end of next week. They want the book ready in six months. How is it going anyway?”

Bethany accepted the folder, trying to figure out how to get Janet out the door.

“It's going well.”

“As your literary consultant, is Brenden providing any inspiration?”

He chuckled quietly as Bethany nodded.

“You could say that,” she said helplessly. “Look, Janet, I hate to shoo you out so soon but Brenden and I were just going to, um, the library.”

The agent grinned again as she rose to her feet.

“Of course you were. Research and all that, I imagine. Well, don't let me hold you up.” At the door, she turned to face the room once again as Bethany approached to see her out. “Brenden, it's been a real pleasure. Keep up the good work.”

With a wink of an eye, Janet sauntered out.

~

In the days to come, Bethany gradually became accustomed to Brenden's presence in her home. In manner he was quiet, almost unobtrusive. When she wasn't working, he would pamper her with foot rubs, shoulder massages, and scrumptious meals that magically appeared in her absence. Still, his sheer existence was provocative and distracting as hell. Somehow, however, she was able to make reasonable progress on her new book. She had to admit, he was providing quite a bit of inspiration.

The following weekend, he was waiting on her when she emerged from her bedroom one morning, determined to write some more. It provided an excellent excuse for keeping her distance. But Brenden was having none of it.

“You work too hard,” he chided, “You're going to burn yourself out. Let's go somewhere. Get out of this house for a while.”

Out of a sense of self-preservation she tried to argue but he was adamant and, in the end, she agreed to visiting the local art museum. There, she discovered he didn't have to read the plate to know who the artist had been, as well as who the muse was that had inspired the work. There was no show of being a know-it-all about him. He was acting more as a personal tour guide, answering her questions and sharing little tidbits about the artist and the subject. She nearly forgot how he affected her as time passed. Afterward, she drove them to her favorite Italian restaurant where they enjoyed lasagna and cannoli before taking a walk along the riverside.

As they meandered slowly along the paved pathway, Brenden took her hand and placed it beneath his arm where it rested against his warm, hard chest. More than one female passerby cast an admiring eye and enticing smile at him, but he didn't seem to notice. His whole attention was centered on Bethany, making her feel pretty and even precious. Her nervous awareness of him was being gradually supplanted by feminine urges unlike any she had ever experienced in her life. Experiences she had only ever been able to imagine when she wrote of them.

“How long will you be here?” she asked him after a few minutes of silence.

“I must leave shortly,” he replied.

Glancing up at him in dismay she confessed, “I wish you didn't.”

“Neither do I.” Drawing her off the path and out of sight behind a towering blue spruce, he turned to face her and touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I wish it were longer. But I can only remain a short time.”

“Will I, will I ever see you again?”

“Perhaps. One day.”

“In another forty years maybe?”

He smiled, “Maybe before. But I am never far away. Always near. As near as your thoughts and your dreams.”

She returned his smile sadly.

“That doesn't sound like much.”

“No.” He slowly shook his head then took her face between his hands. “No. I wish it were more.”

Pulling her close, he gently touched his lips to hers, lingeringly, before drawing away to stare down into her sad blue eyes.

“So much more,” he whispered, his breath falling on her moist lips before taking them again, gently tracing them with his tongue until they opened fully to him. His arms tightened about her and for a few long moments there was nothing else but the two of them. Until he drew away once more and rested his forehead against hers.

“It's getting late,” he finally whispered and, after once again pulling her hand through his arm, led her back to the pathway.

That night, they snuggled on the sofa as Mozart played on the stereo, laughing softly and murmuring to one another of dreams and adventures. Delicious shivers ran through her as Brenden whispered his desires in her ear and ran his big hands teasingly over her. Bethany surprised herself when she boldly responded in kind and felt the heat of her passion keep pace with his, until he stood and quietly led her down the hall to her bedroom.

The following morning, the sun's rays filtered through the sheers to fall on the bed. Slowly Bethany awoke, stretching luxuriously and smiling to herself. Turning she found the bed empty beside her with no sign of anyone having ever been there. Rising, she called his name as she hurried to the living room, then the kitchen, and finally into the office without finding any sign of Brenden. Then she glanced at her laptop where the date and time were displayed. A week had gone by since the morning she had turned to find him standing behind her. A week full of excitement and incredible experiences that had ended with a night filled with tender passion. But the screen showed only a few hours had passed and when she pulled up the last thing she had written, it wasn't the book she had been working on. Instead it was her description of the man in her vision, ending abruptly before she had given him a name.

Dropping into the chair, she held her head in her hands as she stared at the screen. A dream. It had all been a dream. Sadness filled her as she remembered every moment of the dream. Then, quietly, the memory of the book she had been writing passed through her mind followed by the gentle whisper of a familiar voice.

"Write me."

And so she did.