The Painter and the Muse

She was dancing on the stage, naked and free. She was alone and the window on the side revealed it was spring and the rays of the sun making the curtains shimmer.
Her hands outstretched, she was moving to the sound of her own heartbeat, humming under her breath just when the door to her hall opened by an inch.
The face of a man appeared in the crack, holding out a hand marked with remnants of colours and a brush.
She understood he was an artist and joyously invited him in to dance with her, her arms outstretched, at once jubilant and daring.
He stepped through, set up his easel and started to paint. She moved too much so he asked her to stay. She chose a spot in the centre, lifted her arms, threw her head back, laughed and waited for him to colour her red.
The spring changed to summer and she would turn, talk and remain in that spot. His sketch wasn't complete yet, he'd say if she asked to move again. The sound of his charcoal grazing the canvas kept her rooted and excited in anticipation for what she'd discover when she turned to see! So she stood out the sweltering heat of the sun for the promise of the soothing rain.
The summer faded into the autumn breeze and the sweat on her skin dried as the breeze blew cooler, teasing her with the smell of earth after first rain and she smiled, a little more understanding, a little less patient. It's almost done you say? Ofcourse my muse, listen to the brush strokes moving with grace!
The painter's palette was swirling with the gem colours and she looked on fascinated, musing with him about the art he made. You can rest tonight my love but don't move from that place, he said and left.
Before she could tell him that she needed a blanket against the winter chill, that the window needed to be shut for then, he was gone. Her spot was a cage and her conscience held her back when she stepped to do it herself.
So she sat and waited, alone in the dark, the wind blowing too hard and staying in that spot. She lost count of the days he didn't come back and the cold finally cracked the glass that the storm sent the splinters flying into her skin and she ran for cover in a corner of the room, where he found her next morning in a fit of rage.
I told you to not move! What is to happen to the painting? The room is a mess!
Her anger made her pull the shard of glass and she hurled it at him, standing straight to make him see the blood on her skin.
A moment of  incredulous disbelief brought silence between them. She saw the cigar in his mouth, the comfort of a warm bed echoing in his uncreased face and fell to her knees.
The easel crashed to the floor, the door swung and shut close, footsteps faded away into the distance as she pulled the curtain to herself, gazing out at the sky, scarred but defiant, daring the sun to rise again.