To avoid any major confusion, the italicized sections are what the main character in the story is writing (i.e. she's writing about herself in third person).
There will -- hopefully -- be a second part that follows.
Feedback, comments and constructive criticisms are welcome.
"What's the project again?"
"I swear to god, Chris, you don't listen to a word I say."
"So what? Tell me again."
"I have to write a story about myself." Silence. "It can be anything. It can be about my life, it can be about my goals, it can be about my summer vacation. As long as it's nine thousand words."
Chris laughed, "What the hell are you going to write about?"
"I don't know..."
"I can tell you one thing. It's going to be boring as shit."
–
She felt his presence behind her before she ever saw a glimpse of him. She sat in the music library, her forehead resting against the cool, laminate table in frustration. She hoped the music building would be the location to inspire her to write something great, something magnificent; so far, however, the faint serenade of soloists in practice rooms and the cadence from the drum line outside had become nothing more than a deafening cacophony hammering away in her head.
She saw his shadow reflecting on the surface of her laptop and she quickly turned in her seat to face the person who had invaded her personal space.
"Sounds depressing," the man said with a shrug.
"I'm sorry?" she replied incredulously. "Who gave you the right to read that?" She quickly snapped the laptop closed and silently hoped that she had remembered to save what she had just written. Not that it mattered anyhow.
"I'm
sorry. I heard you say it aloud," he responded matter-of-factly. "Didn't realize that anyone ever came in here anymore."
"Oh, right," she said, her face reddening slightly. "Someone just told me..."
"Don't worry about it. Next time though, maybe let me know. Don't just sneak in here."
"I didn't sneak in; there was no one at the front."
"Nevertheless, I need to see your I.D.," he held out his hand expectantly.
She stammered and paused before muttering under her breath and diving into her book bag for her wallet.
"Who do you think you are, anyway?" she asked, fishing through her wallet for the I.D. she never used.
"Name's Michael. I work here. Make sure only the people who are supposed to come in here actually enter."
"Oh..."
"Juliet. Pretty name," he said, examining the card, "but you're not supposed to be in here. Music students only."
"Like you know everyone who comes in here." She started shuffling papers over the desktop, unplugged her laptop and was about to shove everything into her bag when his hand on her wrist stopped her completely.
"For one, Juliet
, I do." She looked him squarely in the eyes and something about the way he'd said her name and looked back at her made her breath catch in her throat.
"I'm sorry, it won't happen again."
He placed her I.D. squarely on top of her closed laptop. "And two
, I'll make an exception for you."
"It's really not necessary," she said with a resigned sigh as she turned back to the desk and shoved a notebook haphazardly into her bag.
"I insist," he said softly. "I know how important the 'right' location is for you writing students. Heaven help me if I shoo one of you away and prevent you from writing something great."
"How'd you..."
"Syllabus," he replied, pointing to the blue sheet of paper still on the desk.
She huffed and shook her head while shoving that into her bag with everything else.
"I'm here from two to six. Everyday," he said. "I have class at night. Sometimes I come back after nine and open it back up for procrastinators. Though, again, not like anyone ever comes."
"I..." she stopped in the middle of sliding the laptop off the table.
"No need to thank me."
–
"Chris and I; it just sort of happened. He invited me over one night to watch a movie and before I knew it, we were still awake and it was three in the morning. It was much too late – or early – for me to get home safely so I stayed there. We both fell asleep right there on his sofa. He wasn't my first choice, nor my last. He just was. He didn't inspire me, but he didn't discourage what I did or what I wanted to do."
–
"So what project is this?"
"Are you familiar with Professor Kim's syllabi?"
"I've heard some students complain about his assignments," Michael replied. "I'm just wondering how long you're going to be nosing around all this sheet music."
Juliet rolled her eyes, "If you want me to go somewhere else, I'll go."
Michael laughed softly and shook his head, "Which is it?"
"The novella," she replied.
"All semester then." –
"Do you believe in the idea of a muse?" I asked Chris late one night as we were falling asleep.
"Like a little fairy that sits on your shoulder and tells you what to do?" he replied sarcastically.
"Forget it."
I didn't tell him about Michael. I didn't tell him about the way he'd made my heart jump when I looked into his speckled green eyes or the way my skin tingled when his calloused fingers brushed over my wrist. How could two totally minuscule, innocent and otherwise utterly insignificant gestures light a fire inside of me? He'd just asked me for identification.
–
Juliet closed her eyes and tilted her chair back into the wall of bookcases behind her. The soft, melancholy crescendoes of a cello wafted through the walls from a room nearby. Evening was her favorite time of the day to be entombed in the library. The chorus of voices from numerous instruments faded to one or two by nightfall and she was able to hone in on one melody that could urge her on and on for hours.
"Are you going to share your story with me?"
She opened her eyes and smiled, "Don't know yet."
"I think that's the least I should get in return, don't you?" He pulled up a seat next to her, folded his arms over the back of the chair and sat down.