The Writer and Her Muse

Taxis whizzed past pedestrians who were far too immersed in their own lives to care about anyone else. The concrete jungle that was New York thudded under the feet of suit-clad businessmen and the leather pumps of businesswomen. Isla Ivanovich was on her way to her boring, run of the mill job at the New York Times writing for some sad, sap-filled romance column that she had no real interest for.

But, that was life. Isla had learned a long time ago that rarely does one get what they want and they usually end up with some mediocre, watered-down version of what they once aspired to achieve. Take her job, for instance. Isla was sure when she graduated from Brown with a degree in English, she would be the next big thing, a Dickens meets Sparks sort of writer. But, here she was, writing advice to pathetic teenagers and housewives who still believed in love. It was odd how good she was at spewing lies.

Once upon a time the column had seemed like it would be her saving grace,the first big step that would launch her career and get her boss Tracy to notice her impeccable writing in the hopes that one day she’d sponsor her career- as an anonymous benefactor, of course- but those were the naive and idle musings of the child inside her, and she no longer had great expectations. That fresh faced college student with a dream had died about a year before, without so much as a passing glance from Tracy, for that matter.But at least she had a somewhat passable job to call her own, with a steady income and a somewhat affordable Manhattan studio apartment that she shared with a bunch of “artists” to call her home. Though she couldn’t really complain about her life, that didn’t much stop her from doing it anyway.

Headphones in ear and best friend Clara at her side, she clumsily crossed the busy intersection in her platform stilettos beneath the bright lights of a crowded Times Square. She felt like Anne Hathaway in the Devil Wears Prada , yet ever so slightly less graceful.

Tonight was the company New Years party, but she saw it more as an over the top office birthday party. What better way to bring in the new year and a new age than with the people she hated the most? She could hear all the drunken chiding already: “ Twenty-two already, Isla? Maybe you’ll finally hit puberty!” Camille would spew, which would offset a chorus of heavy drink-laden laughter, and sloppy merriment. What a joy. She almost couldn’t wait.

One of the only things that kept her employed was the inspiration she got from glances at one dashing worker in particular. It was maybe more than glances, more like ogling at the rugged statue that was Alexander Harker. Isla would scold herself for making eyes at anyone but her boyfriend Darren, but looks were just that-nothing but empty promises that as long as they didn’t hurt anyone, would get her through the day. She’d never actually spoken more than five sentences to Alex however. She feared she’d get to know him too well, find out that someone as attractive as him was an asshole, and that in turn would shatter the whole ethereal image that she’d imagined up. So instead, she kept that mysterious fabled box closed, and her hope in tact.

There was a playful breeze that afternoon that caused her simple yellow eyelet dress to whip around her knees, and in trying to avoid a Marilyn Monroe worthy peepshow, caused Isla to trip forward onto the concrete scraping her knee. Five inch heels were not her forte, it seemed.

“Isla Ivanovich!” Clara exclaimed in her charming Southern drone. “How do you expect to call yourself a lady,” (she emphasized ‘lady’ in a delicate, flirty and feminine tone that only a Southern Belle as experienced as Clara-Lou Peeton could), “ if you cannot walk in heels!” she scolded sharply.

Isla flinched as she struggled up, blood fresh on her legs and the ground. “I can walk in heels! I just can’t walk in these heels. No one should be this dangerously tall, Clara. It’s a power I must renounce.” she finished wiping her dress of dirt dramatically. Clara pouted at her friend.

“Oh, if it’s the last thing I do, Miss Ivanovich, you will be the finest lady New York has ever seen: In five-inch heels, I reckon as well!”

Isla, shook her head at her friend, then took her hand as they continued down the street and around the corner. Isla was more than glad to have her friend at her side, as work functions were no walk in the park for her. She’d much rather sneak away to a solitary desk, in an unoccupied floor and finish her assignments. Despite how much she hated answering little Jessie’s desperate questions, she could be certain that she hated Betsy, Grant, and the lot of the ninth floor a great deal more. Besides, more work completed meant she could enjoy Sunday on the couch by herself with a chilled Heineken watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire getting a bulk of the questions right- the nicest ego boost she’d receive for the week.

They arrived at the office, already littered with red plastic cups and confetti. A Rihanna song was blasting and reverberated throughout the whole building, including the elevator that took them to the ninth floor. They were greeted by the acidic smell of hard liquor. Clara danced into the office and Isla meekly followed after her, hoping no one would notice or feel her presence. But as Isla never quite got what she wanted. . .

“ The Island’s here, guys!” Betsy shrieked, and everyone behind her cheered and raised their glasses before returning to their various dalliances. Isla nodded to the sober and more tolerable people amongst the group before deciding on a corner where she could stand
awkwardly with her arms crossed in indifference.

Clara fit in so easily. She was already dancing with some guy from Human Resources and within a blink of Isla’s eye, they had knocked over a potted plant on a file cabinet due to their heated lip lock. She laughed and rolled her eyes. It only took one drink for the Southern Belle to lose her sweet chime.

As she was laughing her eyes met those of Alex, who gave a brilliant smile in response. She blushed furiously. She hadn’t meant to smile at him, but she was glad she had because the rest of the evening involved a guilt-rousing game of eye tag. At 11:47, as if feeling her guilt, Darren called.

“Hey babes.” Isla could tell he was already drunk.

“Hi Darren.” she maintained eye contact with Alex.
“How’s the party going? Is it fun? ‘Cause we’re having fun here at your place.”

“My place? Darren, why are you at my place?” Isla’s face dropped instantly.

“Cause that guy, Gus-”

“-My roommate?”

“Yeah , him. He invited me to this party he’s having here.”

Isla heard something that sounded like glass fall to the floor and she cringed and cursed under her breath. “ Darren, make sure that they don’t go in my room please?”

“Nah babes, only a couple of us are in your room-”

“- A couple!” she cried out clamping her hand to her forehead in anxiety.

“Yeah, anyway, so listen babe. What if we get married? I was in Brooklyn today and I saw one of those old gumball machines and I tried to win you a ring, but all I got was gum instead” he slurred and drifted off for a moment. “ But you love gum, babes, so I figured you’d like it anyway. If you say yes, babes,” his tone became more grave, “I promise you, “ he paused as if getting his thoughts straight, “I promise you I will go back and win you that ring!”

“Wow.” she sighed angrily into the receiver.

“Hey, hey, put that down, that’s my future wife’s typer!” she heard Darren call from a distance.

“My typewriter?” she screamed, fully incensed. Just then the phone disconnected. Isla threw her phone into her purse in a huff.

“Stupid boy. . .” she mumbled to herself. She was so engrossed in thought and worry that she hadn’t noticed the shadow that Alex’s waiting figure had cast over her. His cerulean eyes looked down at her. He had two cups in his hand.

“It looks like you need a drink.” he flashed his charming smile once more.

“Yes please. . “ Isla inwardly rejoiced, but Camille came behind Alex rambling and bumped his arm. As hard as he tried to guide the contents of the cup elsewhere, the liquid still inauspiciously landed on Isla’s favorite dress.

Isla’s face transformed from Russian masterpiece to French caricature at the sight of the stained ensemble. Alex excreted embarrassed apologies. Deciding that it was absolutely essential to clean her dress before the ball dropped in the next two minutes, and quickly reassuring Alex that it wasn’t his fault with a gentle grab of the hand, Isla scurried towards the exit but found that escape was futile. Her platforms collided with the ice cubes on the maroon carpeted floor that awaited her wide-eyed arrival.

“3. . .2. . .1. . Happy New Year!”

The world went black.