The Muse's Undoing

“When I was on the lacrosse team, I could do center splits.”

He gives me a hazy blink. “Yeah?”

I nod, letting him rotate my thigh to the left with his warm, gentle hands, bracing both sides of my quad just above the knee. My scars are red and ugly, but they don’t seem to bother him. The worst and largest is the one above my knee, where an entire chunk of flesh is missing. The sizable dent is even more disfiguring than the fact that I only have one remaining testicle. I blame my missing pieces for my persistent lack of stability.

I tend to overcompensate with my right side. Hence the reason I still have to shower on a damn stool.

“Any other special talents?” he asks.

“None I want to mention right now.”

I get another eye roll for that. “Finish your water, weirdo. It’s time for bed. I have to be at work at seven.”

Thunder rolls outside, and we both turn to the window as lighting flashes. He climbs over my leg to get to his phone on the nightstand. Tucking himself beneath the sheets, he opens up his phone to check the forecast.

“Ugh. It’s raining all day tomorrow,” he says.

“Take an Uber. My treat.”

“We’re like thirty seconds from the subway. It’s faster anyway.”

“Would it kill you to accept a gift from me?”

“Maybe.”

I put all my things on my own nightstand and switch off the lamp. Matthew does the same, turning his back to me as I do the same. There’s at least a foot of space between us, even on the queen sized bed, so Donna can chill the fuck out. I let out a breath filled with frustration and try to breathe in one more relaxing.

“‘Night,” he says.

That helps. My shoulders relax, and I sink into the pillow. “Good night.”

3

MATTHEW

Tonight’s storm is even worse than last night’s, but I don’t have to work tomorrow, so I don’t mind it. The cloud-to-cloud lighting has my full attention as Fischer sleeps through it behind me. I think about the Sistine Chapel. The Creation of Adam, specifically. God’s fingertip touching man’s. I get there isn’t a lighting strike in the original, but I wonder if lighting might have inspired it in any way.

It was probably just inspired by the Bible, though. The thunder grows more distant as the minutes tick by, and so it startles the hell out of me when Fischer shouts, “Help! Somebody fucking help me!”

I flip over wondering if he asked for something, and I didn’t hear it, or if his leg is spasming or something, but he’s barely moving. He’s just—screaming.

I put a hand on his back, and his arm shoots out, like he’s reaching for me, fingers wide like he’s trying to grasp onto something. I immediately grab it. “Fischer,” I say firmly.

The screaming stops and turns to heavy panting. I scoot closer so he doesn’t have to reach so far to hold my hand. So I don’t have to speak as loudly to wake him up. “Fischer—hey.”

He sucks in a gasp and lifts his head, looking over his shoulder, his eyes wide with panic. “Matty?”

“Yeah. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“I’m cold.”

I crowd him, wrapping an arm around his chest because I know I run warm. We’re both wearing t-shirts, but his is soaked through with sweat.

“Jesus. Were you having a nightmare?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

I almost laugh. Why. This guy. “You were yelling for help.”