I remember him naked, sitting on my bed playing the bass. His eyes were cast sideways as he tried to look cool. Though, I must say, it's difficult for anyone to look cool while being naked trying to balance a large green bass guitar.
He wore a skull ring that I hated. Never took it off.
Always tasted of beer and weed no matter what.
I came across a stack of photos of him that I had tried to forget existed. I tucked them back away in the envelope and back in a box.
I found a manuscript, the first draft of something in another pile of notes and short stories. This time of a man with sandy coloured hair and ocean blue eyes. Better times.
A man I've studied and stared at, a million times over the years, but never met. Inspiration enough that literally engulfed me out of the blue one day.
Who knows where that image and imagination might have led? A best seller maybe?
If sex complicates things, then doesn't reality as well?
In the beginning, the ex tried to be the muse for me. He did things to end up being photographed, drawn, written about. It was nearly exhausting trying to keep him in the spotlight.
In the end, The Other Guy was just naturally a muse for me. It only became difficult when I learned that people were actually paying attention.
There is a part of me that thinks The Other Guy doesn't get all the credit he deserves. Whatever his reality is, it's a lot less complicated then mine.
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