Friday, February 11, 2005

“Do you remember how it ends?” said Muse after a thoughtful pause.

I gave her a quizzical look, half-hoping she would catch it.

“What?” I asked. “How does what end?”

“I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” she replied, scrunching her nose. “Old habit?”

“Could be a new habit if you keep asking these questions.”

We were enjoying our evening stroll, admiring the winter sky, trying to determine what exactly made stars so appealing. That’s the best part about winter walks. Too cold for the clouds, perfect for everything else. You’d think walking in the morning would be much wiser, a whole lot warmer, but that’s not the case. There’s just something about closing your day outside, in the sinister yet inviting night, completely removed from everyone else simply because you can’t see them. The ostriches are right.

“So you were asking about something,” I reminded her. “What was it?”

“The story,” she said without hesitation. “Our story. You know how it ends?”

“Not soon, I hope,” and that was the truth. “I can’t see the future, remember?”

She will sometimes mix the future with the present, which drives me unequivocally batty. By the same token, though, that’s the great thing about Muse: her presence. She’s always there, always was and will be. I’ve felt this every moment, even when I didn’t want to feel it.

It’s an imperative.

“I don’t know how our story ends, I don’t want to know right now, but I will tell you this,” I continued. “Tomorrow’s our second anniversary, and I’m already looking forward to the next one.”

“That’s sweet. Another year?” she asked airily.

“Yes, let’s.”

Two years, more letters than I have fingers to count, every single word shared more willingly than I would with any English paper. Here’s to a third and ten thousand others.