Her voice made me jump out of my reverie.  “I’m back.”

     Once my heart settled back into its normal rhythm, I grumped at her.  “It’s about time.  I’ve been struggling here.”

     “Hey, don’t blame me.  You’re the writer.”  My muse flounced over to a nearby chair and sprawled into it.

     “Yes, but you’re my muse.  You’re supposed to be here to give me inspiration.”

     “Inspiration, shminpiration I have my own needs.” 

     “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     “You know.”  She stretched out her left hand and checked out her fingernails.

     “No, if you don’t tell me.  I don’t know.”

     “I need space.  I need my privacy.  I need love too.”

     “A likely story.”  I turned back to my computer.

     She stood and tapped me on the shoulder.  “I’m serious here.  Why don’t you believe me?”

     “Because you only disappear when I’ve written my characters into corners that’s why.”

     “So don’t do it.”

     With that exasperating bit of news, I shoved my chair away from the desk.  “Pray tell, how is that possible?”

     “Write literary fiction.  Give up on the mysteries.”

     I picked up my phone.  “Is there someone I can call to have you replaced?”

     “Now, is that nice?  After all I’ve done for you.”