The Poet and the Muse


The watch on her wrist is expensive, a gift she received at some point over the years. She hardly keeps track of these sort of things anymore. A watch here, a pair of earrings there. A necklace, a bracelet. They all blur together and she keeps most of them hidden away, in the back of her closet at home, where nobody would expect to find her secrets.

The watch is functional though, gold and expensive like everything else, but has a purpose. She keeps it on her wrist, a heavy reminder strapped to her bones. And now she watches as the time goes by, the second hand wrap around the minute hand and no matter how many presents she has, no matter what she has hidden and what she keeps close to her, she can't make time speed up or slow down.

She's been sitting here for hours, if the watch is working correctly. She almost wants to take it off and check the battery. Something isn't right. Wesker should have been here by now. They should be in bed or the shower or sitting together at the table, talking about nothing (because everything crosses so many boundaries).

He isn't here though, hasn't called, hasn't left a message, didn't send a carrier pigeon. They've been doing this for years and at some point, Claire lost track of just how long. It feels like forever on some days and no time at all on others. He always shows up though, no matter what. He shows up, his eyes hidden and hers impossibly opened.

She waits until the sun is breaking through the curtains, streams of dust filtering in, tickling at her allergies. Then she puts on her jeans, her most comfortable t-shirt and leaves, her expensive dress left stranded in the middle of the floor, forgotten and hardly used. He didn't show and Claire isn't sure if anything could hurt more (but she knows it's possible).