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It was one of those boring days again.

John would make me sit as still as I could, and use me as he always did whenever he had a sudden epiphany to paint. “keep quiet and just help me, darling,” he would mutter whenever I made a peep of complaint, and he would silence me completely with a long and hard kiss before he stepped away from me, his eyes never leaving me, and sit again at his infernal favorite position, behind the painting easel with the paintbrush held in his left hand.

You see, John is a painter, an artist, and I am his muse. We have lived together ever since it was legally OK to do so, which would be about seven years ago. I am now twenty five years old, committed to my fifty year old man. I hold quite a good job at a publishing company. John, of course, procured it for me by pulling a few strings here and there.

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