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His three children, still in their pyjamas, eating snacks from the fridge, the entrance rug lying on the table, the television in the living room blasting cartoons loudly, and all the furniture in the room covered in stuff. The kitchen sink was full of dishes, the leftovers from breakfast were scattered all over the counter, and crumbs covered it as well. The man hurried up the stairs, jumping over toys and piles of clothes, worried that his wife might be sick or that something had happened to her. When he entered the bedroom, breathless, he found her lying happily in bed while still in her pyjamas, reading a book. Hearing his heavy breathing she looked at him, smiled, and asked how his day had been. The surprised man was completely confused and asked his wife “What happened here today?” The woman smiled at him and replied “You know how every day when you come home you ask me what the hell I did that day?” “Yes” replied the man, astonished. “Exactly” replied the woman “Today, I. John would make me sit as still as I could, and use me as he always did whenever he had a sudden epiphany to paint. “keep quiet and just help me, darling,” he would mutter whenever I made a peep of complaint, and he would silence me completely with a long and hard kiss before he stepped away from me, his eyes never leaving me, and sit again at his infernal favorite position, behind the painting easel with the paintbrush held in his left hand.You see, John is a painter, an artist, and I am his muse. We have lived together ever since it was legally OK to do so, which would be about seven years ago. I am now twenty five years old, committed to my fifty year old man. I hold quite a good job at a publishing company. John, of course, procured it for me by pulling a few strings here and there. By day, I would work as a personal assistant to the head of the cosmetics department, Anne, and after that I devote all my time to John. It’s been like this for seven long years. I don’t think I can.
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