A loud buzzer sounded inside.  The door, groaning on its hinges, opened at a snail’s pace.  Shades of a D grade horror film.  I hate horror films.    

     A green cloud billowed out of the opening.  The foul stench made me gag.  I thought nothing could be worse than Gavin’s farts—I was wrong.

     Two steps in found me hopelessly tangled in a spider’s web of sticky, red tape.  My muse wasn’t kidding.  All I needed now was to have some giant, horror of a spider skulking above me.  Don’t look.  You won’t be happy if you look.  Beads of nervous sweat rolled down my back.

     I used my trusty little pocket knife to hack through the gluey strands.  Like a jungle explorer, I slashed my way forward.  Eight struggling steps brought me to a tall counter, the top of which was even with my forehead.  I had to back up two steps to see over it.  I wished I hadn’t. 

     “Fee Fi Fo Fum.  I smell a human who must be dumb.”  The giant glared at me.

     My first attempt to answer came out as a mouse squeak.  I cleared my throat and answered again.  “Not dumb, determined.  I lost my concentration and I need to find it.”

     “Can you describe it?”

     We’d been driving through the Whimsy Warehouse District for over an hour when my muse pointed at a nondescript, three floor high cement block building.  “There it is, over there.” 

     “It had better be the right building this time.” 

     “I’m sure it is.”

     “That’s what you said at the last half dozen or so buildings.  Just for the record, I’m not fond of being chased by vicious trolls with huge teeth.”

     “You don’t have to be mean.”  My muse’s lower lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears.  “I told you I was sorry.  I haven’t been out here for over a quarter of a century.  ”

     “No need for waterworks.”  I parked in front of the building.  A small sign with ‘L&F’ crudely painted on it hung above door.  “It really doesn’t look as if they want this found.”

     “They don’t.”

     “Does that mean more trolls?”

     “Um, not so much.”

     I hesitated on opening my door.  “What does that mean?”

     “Red tape.  Lots of red tape.”

     “No trolls?”

     “No trolls.”

     I got out of the car but my muse didn’t.  Red flags went up.  “Are you coming?”

     “I’d rather stay in the car.”

     “Why?”

     She refused to answer.  I shrugged, trudged through the flags to the door, and rang the tiny doorbell that was nearly out of my reach…

     Sometimes I feel like the train’s conductor.  At other times, I feel like a passenger.  During some conversations with DH, I feel as though I’ve stepped on the train, handed the conductor my ticket to punch, and am on my way.  Woo, woo!

     It usually starts with him saying something from left field.  You know, that place where you have no idea what the heck he’s talking about or where it came from.

     My normal response is, “What?”

     He must think I’m hard of hearing because he repeats what he said louder.

     “I heard you.  I’m asking you what you are talking about not what you said.”

     He repeats what he said.

     “Where did that come from?”

     It came from some subject long past that has slipped out of my mind and meandered down the tracks.  Time has gone by, subjects have changed, and I’m not losing my mind I’ve moved on.  I’m sure you know how it is.  37 years with this man, you think I’d be used to it by now, but he can still drive me ‘round the bend at times.

     Chugga, chugga, choo, choo.  The train has left the station.