The Muse Read Free

it.   
                “Hey, Rembrandt,” she said.  “Paint anything good today?  Find any Mona Lisas out there to immortalize?”  Faith always called him by some famous painter's name, but never his own.  He wasn't even sure she knew his name.   
                “The usual,” he sighed.  “People in love.  And Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa, not Rembrandt.”
                “Fair enough,” she said.  “You're the art guy, not me.  Just making conversation.  You mentioned people in love?”
                “Yes, they seem to multiply like rabbits around here.  Everywhere you look there's a Juliet for every Romeo.”
                “You say that as if it's a bad thing,” she said, pushing her blonde hair back over her ears.
                “Not a bad thing for them,” Gibson said.  “Or at least not initially.  It's never bad in the beginning.  That comes later.” 
                Faith studied him carefully.  “Spoken like a true jilted lover.  Why is their happiness such a bad thing for you?  I would think love would be good for business.”
                Gibson thought about ignoring the question, climbing the steps to the building, and going to his apartment.  Yet, there was a part of him that wanted to answer her.  Faith didn't understand how things worked.  She had money, privilege, and a completely different perspective on things than he did.  Gibson lived here because he had to.  Faith lived here because she chose to.  To her this was all some sort of experiment to “find herself,” whatever that meant.  At any point, she could go back to her affluent home, back to the dozens of suitors that would clamor for her, back to the fairy tale from whence she came.  Her worldview was completely different than his, and he wanted a chance to tell her so.
                “You really want to know?” he said.  “Honestly, it just seems like everywhere I turn the world is rubbing my nose in my pitiful excuse for a life.  Everybody seems happy.  Everybody has someone.”
                “Just because people seem happy doesn't mean they are.”
                “It doesn't mean they aren't either.”
                “Sounds like you're feeling sorry for yourself,” Faith said.
                “You don't know anything about me,” Gibson said, starting to get angry. 
                “You're right.  I don't know much about you.  But there are some things I do know.”
                “We're from completely different worlds,” Gibson said.  “You're a child of privilege.  I'm a child of circumstance.  There is a big difference where we're concerned.”
                “That doesn't matter when it comes to the heart,” Faith told him.  “You can't choose who you love, and love has very little to do with money or your station in life.  Look at all of the stories throughout history where a king falls in love with a peasant girl or a queen finds herself a pauper to marry.  The fact that you're lonely has nothing to do with your bank account.”
                “Spoken like a true socialite,” Gibson said.
                “Why do you dislike me so much?” Faith said.  “Anytime I try and strike up a conversation with you, it's like trying to shoot an arrow through a brick wall.  My words just bounce off of you and never really go anywhere.  I find you interesting, and I think it's possible that you might find me interesting too.  But you won't allow anyone to get through to you.  You just walk around all puffed up like an angry peacock, daring anyone to speak to you.  Do you ever think that might have something to do with why you're alone?”
                “I didn't ask for your advice,” Gibson fumed.  “As far as I can tell, you aren't surrounded by suitors either.  Seems to me