Muse

Rough short story I wrote awhile back; originally a treatment for a short film.

Anna sat with her hands crossed in the lap of her sun dress, watching the birds jitter from seed to seed on the old concrete. She sat on an old wooden bench, intricate designs of vines and leaves woven into the wrought iron frame.  Across the street, two old men sat at the stoop of their apartment arguing in thick Eastern European languages. Her feet were crossed , and the tip of one shoe bopped up and down to cassette she listened to(she refused to by CDs or, God forbid, one of those dreaded MP3 players. She still refused to even buy a computer, stacks of notebooks littered her apartment). She read a worn novel, one that had been read again and again for many years. One that (though the story never changed) seemed to get better with every read. As the wind picked up, it blew her short cropped hair in small waves.
    From across the park, behind a grove of aspen trees, James sat cross-legged behind the trunks of two intersecting trees. A small backpack lay in the dirt and leaves, carrying James’ most valued possessions. Binoculars, high powered ones that could be adjusted for different distances. His sketchbook, already mostly filled. And a small pouch of pencils, erasers and sharpeners. Strewn around him were faint sketches from his notebook, outlines of a girl on a bench. His eyes moved eagerly, anticipating each stroke, while they intermittently darted from his drawing back through the binoculars to catch another glimpse of reference. His legs had long since fallen asleep, sharp jolts of what he used to refer to as “pins and needles” darting through his nervous system. James hardly noticed. His focus was feverish as worked furtively from his corner. This was always the happiest part of his day, catching her with the sun’s rays just so on her face, when she was most peaceful. Sitting observing the world, while he, in turn, observed her.He peered through the lenses again, and caught her shoving her book back into her bag. He let out a deep sigh and his subject got up and walked away.
Everyday it was the same, he would spend the hour or so furiously sketching and perfecting her image in his drawings, trying hopelessly to recreate her beauty on paper, to capture it. And everyday when she left, his spirit was routinely crushed from losing the time to finish. To perfect his work. Then slowly packing up his tools, he would walk the twenty blocks back to his apartment, and work intently on his art, until he fell asleep hunched over his drawing table.
Every inch of James’ apartment was covered in drawings. All were of the girl on the bench. Plastered like patches on old jeans, his drawings were his wallpaper. Stacks of books littered around the dusty wood floors like lost dogs with no homes. A small table by his front door held Tower-of-Pisa stacks of envelopes reading “Past Due” and “Final Notice”, collecting dust, some not even opened at all. A tiny bed was propped against the corner, but James’ hadn’t slept in it in months.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow I’ll get it right. He thought this everyday, letting himself swim in his fantasies until falling asleep to the thought of the wind rippling her hair.
    The next day, after watching her leave, his resolve was once again broken. He began his long walk home deep in thought. He walked with his head down, his cheap blazer wrapped tightly around him as it started to rain. He muttered indifferently to himself, and continued his indecipherable conversation as he ascended the stairs to his apartment. When he reached his door, he found a yellow lock with a thick weight bolted to his doorknob. There was a notice posted to inform him his assets had been seized, and he had been evicted.     
    It took James a few confused jiggles of the knob to realize he no longer lived here. Slowly, he turned and walked aimless down the staircase. It dawned on him that all his work was gone, all his “almosts”. He quickly recovered, getting rid of this reflection and focusing more on the task at hand. They were never really finished anyway, he thought. Not the perfection of how he drew her in his mind. Tracing every curve and letting each stroke take on a life of its own. Shading the shadows under her features when the sun hit her in just such a way.  His mind was euphoric with her as he walked, not noticing he was retracing his steps back to the park.
    James woke to the sounds of screaming tires. He sat up startled, and peered half lidded at the two men now arguing with each other in the middle of the road. Their cars had missed each other, but just barely. James had slept on Her bench, dreaming of her in all the vivid colors of his subconscious. He was suddenly filled with a sense of panic as he realized she would be here soon. It looked to be almost midday, right around when she usually showed up. Or worse, he thought, she had already come, and was so repulsed by the unshaven vagrant sleeping on the bench that she would leave ad never return to be his muse. He leaped off the bench and ran, fumbling to get his shoulder bag on as he headed for his corner of the park.
    Once he reached the alcove, his sanctuary, he dropped to the ground and let out a deep breath. He sat in his usual spot, taking out his sketchbook and pencils, sharpening them with a craftsman’s care. He breathed easy now; all his troubles were gone when he was here. He opened to a blank page and waited.
    She was late that day, and James had grown anxious waiting for her. It was mid afternoon when she arrived, but as she sat down and opened her book, James was happy she was late. The sun had never lit her like it did that day, and it made James feel as if he were sketching her for the first time. Switching between his high powered binoculars and the smooth, bleached white of his book, the image slowly began to emerge. He used the tip of his finger to spread the graphite, making shadows and halos around her. He felt himself growing warmer; his drug taking over. He was making small adjustments around her lips, getting just the right perk to them, when the tip of his pencil snapped and left a thick black line across her face. He stared blankly at the page in horror.
    The world suddenly came flooding back to James. He realized his drawing was ruined and he was still homeless. The spinning mess of his avoidance kicked up a notch in his mind. He switched gears when he noticed the girl had stood up to leave, apparently in a hurry.
    Normally, James would have sullenly watched her go, made a few improvements on his sketches, and then retired to his own home. But James had nothing and nowhere to go home to. Suddenly James’ focus became clear to him, more so than it ever had before. He packed up his things, and then keeping a wide distance between them, he followed the girl home.
    
    She stopped only once, at a street cart with postcards, purchasing one and laughing with the vendor about some unheard joke. James watched from a corner, keeping his distance but never letting her out of his sight. He was desperately afraid that she would hail a cab, and drive into the dusk to never be seen again. But she did not, she kept a slow pace and it was easy for James to keep up. She let her gaze drift up the skyscrapers with the awe that never goes away from seeing such heights. James was sure at any moment she would feel his eyes tracing and shading her, and would turn around to confront him. But she did not. Finally, she walked up to the stoop of her apartment building. James stayed back, ducking into the space between two buildings, and waited.
    After a few moments, when he was sure it was safe, he sat down on the concrete steps of her stoop. His mind raced to find the next move he should make. He didn’t know her name, nor would she let him in if he used the intercom. He had no idea what floor she was on, and he panicked as he looked skyward to the seemingly never-ending building.
    The sun was already setting as James climbed the ladder to the fire escape that snaked alongside the building. He moved slowly, not wanting to make any sounds or draw any attention to himself. He took quick glances of all the windows he passed. Most were views into furnished rooms with no occupants.  He passed a few middle aged couples sitting on sofas and falling into their televisions. On the third floor, even two lovers already in the heat of the moment couldn’t slow James’ pace.
    The city had grown black, and his only light as he teetered along the plated steel was the glow emitted from each passing window. James was fifteen stories up, scared not of the long fall down, but that he might have chosen the wrong side of the building to climb up, and her apartment must be on the other side. Or that he had already passed her apartment, and she was simply in a room not on the far wall where the windows were. The wind blew fierce and cold at his elevation, and his numbing fingers ached from it as they pulled him along the railing. He finally sat down to rest.
    Closing his eyes, James saw her reading on the bench. He smelled the scent of earth and trees, and the sweet mixture that is unique only to spring. He felt the hard pencil between his fingers, the rough texture of the paper on the edge of his hand as he made smooth movements attempting to recreate her. Now, he opened his eyes and continued his climb with renewed confidence.
    As he turned another corner on the stairwell, he finally found her.     
    The window was half open, leading his view into her bedroom, and to her bed in the center, where she lay covered in a thick, down blanket. Her bedside lamp was on, another creased paperback open on her chest. It moved slowly up and down with the deep breaths of her sleep.
    James huddled against the far side of the railing, so as not to be noticed easily if she woke. He’d never been so close to her, and was as afraid as he was excited. He watched her for a few moments, enjoying the convenience of seeing her in this new pose without having to worry about being spotted. Instinctively, he took out his pencil and paper from his bag.
    Using his binoculars from this distance, every curve and dip of her facial features, and thus became the perfect model to him asleep. As he began to dray her tousled hair, the wind picked up and took the pencil from his hand. It dropped into the open window he crouched against, and his mouth dropped open as he watched it roll across the hardwood floor of her apartment. He held his breath as he waited for her to stir. . .but she never did. James realized he’d have to retrieve to the pencil to finish his drawing.
    His muscles moved without mind, sliding up the bottom half of the window. He swung one leg over and into her bedroom, touching his shoe down gingerly onto the floorboards. He winced as the windowsill dug into his groin while he shifted his weight, and slowly brought his other leg inside.
    His back foot caught at the toe as it was about to clear the ledge. It threw him off balance, and with a rolling jerk he went tumbling to the floor in heap. The noise woke the girl, and startled she sat straight up, eyes wide and startled.
    Her heart pounded as she realized a burglar had snuck in her window. The intruder’s eyes met hers in a strange glaze, as though he were studying a painting. He stood up slowly, never blinking, and muttered to himself. He walked towards her.    
    “Get the hell out!” she yelled, her voice warbling from fear.
    “My pencil…” James babbled, and took another step towards her.
    She realized this man was insane.
    As he mumbled on his approach, she reached into her nightstand drawer and withdrew a chrome revolver. He had almost reached the end of her bed as she pleaded with him, cocking the hammer.
    “Please, just go…”
    His head shook slightly from side to side, as though trying to explain something in his own language and movements.
    She squeezed the trigger and fired, hitting James in the center of his chest. His ribs shattered and cut into his organs, his heart exploding. The impact knocked him off his feet and onto the ground in a violent acrobatic display.
    She jumped out from under the covers and ran over to him. His eyes still held their vacant gaze, and he continued muttering even as blood poured from his mouth and chest. James’ vision blurred as he studied her for the last time. His final image of her was of a single tear rolling down her perfect cheek. He breathed out his last chortling breath, and laid his head to its side, the pencil only a few inches from his face as the girl began sobbing.