My New Muse (Mild Wattpad Version) (Completed) [SLOWLY BEING EDITED]

12. Poetic Justice

It's been about two weeks since the wedding, and my lip has returned to its normal state. I can't say I'm not pleased. I haven't seen David since the morning after the wedding; I've had at least one photo shoot each day, which is a 180 from the level of struggles that I was facing not even four months ago. As I walk to the kitchen in my small apartment, I begin to wonder... what does David do? He's never told me. He must have a pretty good job to own two houses, but somehow, I've been fuckíng the man for weeks now and I still don't know. I shrug off the thought, and reach up to open the cabinet and pull down the jar of Jablum Instant Coffee, I feel a sharp pain in the left side of my pelvis.

"Fuck," I hiss, bending over.

This is what you get for not eating dinner last night. Gas pains.

I straighten up and reach for the coffee again, this time retrieving it, and make myself a cup of steaming black coffee with scrambled eggs and bread along with it (I'm too lazy to do anything else).

So, back to David. What does he do? For some reason, I wouldn't be surprised if he was into some shady shít.

Oh, well.

I guess I'll just have to ask the next time I see him. I make a mental note to do so, and even though I'm extremely forgetful, I'm pretty sure that I'll remember this.

After resolving to ask David about his occupation the next time we speak, I continue to eat, not really for the taste of the food, but rather out of necessity. It's something that happens to me sometimes — I don't feel the urge to eat, but I know that I have to do I force myself to.

On other occasions, I'm like a pig, consuming everything in sight until I feel as if I'm about to burst like that poor man at the end of Monty Python's The Meaning of Life.

I have no idea why my eating patterns are so random — they aren't affected by my mood or period, they just seem inconsistent.

After I finish and wash up the plates, I go back to my room and check my phone.

I have two missed calls from none other than Marcus.

"Answer your goddamn phone," he growls when I call him back.

"Whatever. Why are you calling me?"

"You have a new job offering. It's an event. But—"

"I—"

"But—"

"You—"

"But," he says, drawing out the word so that I will let him continue.

I shut up.

"It's a free speaking/poetry open mic event. They're offering thirty thousand, because they're a little low on funding, but—"

"I'll go," I say before he can finish his sentence. I love poetry — and he knows it. I love reading it, I love writing it, I love hearing it. There's no way I'm passing up this opportunity.

"Great. It's on Thursday coming at nine p.m. I'll text you the address and remember to get there early."

"Yes, sir!" I say in mock salute.