the muse

some things are meant to be

The whiskey was harsh, brutal even as it slid down Jean's throat. His nostrils flared, savoring the welcoming yet somehow antagonising warmth that slowly spread across his chest. He drops the shot glass onto the wooden bar top, his head going with it. The man's fingers press tightly against the meek glass, threatening to break it at any second.

The warn-down jukebox sung loudly, ringing into Jean's ears. His eyes close in a pained manner, eyelids crinkling as his head pounded with the music.

Running a shaking hand through his knotted hair, he balled it up in his fist, harshly pulling on the strands as if he were punishing himself for wounding up in this shithole. Terrible was an understatement for what he was feeling.

Yet, he asked the bartender for another, downing the same golden liquid that smoothly ran down his system. His eyes began to fog, whether it was from the tears that he was forbidden to let run, or the burning alcohol that coursed through his veins.

And when Jean asked for yet another shameful shot, he stared. His eyes never once left the pool of ember, gently swirling inside the glass cup.

Jean didn't know where he went wrong. He hadn't gathered any inspiration whatsoever for the past four months, not one single artwork being done. It was sad, really. He was shameful to admit it, but different people had laid in his bed, night after night. He tried convincing himself it was for the sole purpose of pleasure, but it was a pathetic, desperate attempt to re-achieve some sort of inspiration. Unfortunately, it had only made matters worse, and the man couldn't bare to even place a paint brush on a canvas.

Jean scratched his growing stubble, hating the way it pricked against his fingertips. He needed to shave, he thought to himself as a thumb ran across his bottom lip, wetting the tip.

A wooden gate creaked from his left side, sloppy footsteps being heard against the auburn tiles.

"Shift's finally done." a feminine voice exclaimed, "My back is killing me." 

Jean blinked a few times, his movements stopping as he remained eyeing the shot glass.

That voice. It was beautiful. The way she spoke was luscious, sweet honey dripping from her words.

His head moved to see the person that this voice had belonged to, and he was not disappointed.

His eyes begun at her legs, admiring the way the tight black skirt hugged at her smooth skin, not dismissing the small slit of the material at the left side of her thigh, leading the rest up to his imagination. The sight of curved hips had made him inhale, a fitting button-up waist coat wrapped around her with a white blouse and long sleeves rolled up to her elbows that had a dangerous amount of buttons undone or broken off, exposing the lovely shape of her breasts.

Judging by the outfit, she appeared to be a waitress. Shamefully, he could feel the front of his pants get tighter and tighter by the second.

No amount of whiskey was able to prepare Jean for what he saw next.

Her face was absolutely breath-taking, carved by angels. Did he die of alcohol poisoning? Was she an angel taking him up to heaven? It had snatched the oxygen from his chest, and his jaw dropped, as well as his heart. His hand aggressively knocked the shot glass off its balance, nearly smashing it against the wooden bar.

The lady then gazed over to the accident from inside of the bar, a look of exhaustion painted across her face.

"Fuck— shit, sorry." Jean stuttered as the whiskey ran, droplets hitting the floor. The lady ran her tongue across her top teeth, kissing them, and flicked her hand up dismissively.