We were driving in the rain, on our way back from having dinner. The Muse had the passenger's side window cracked, so she could ash her clove cigarette. I forbid her from smoking in the car. Tom Waits creaked from the stereo, "With charcoal eyes and Monroe hips... she went and took that California trip."

"If you decided to kill me," the Muse said, apropos of nothing, "how would you go about it?"

"Well, that's a rather random thing to ask," I replied. I downshifted to take an easy curve in the road.

"Would you get in close? Put your hands around my throat and crush me, pop your thumbs in there nice and tight?" I glanced at her as she took a drag from her cigarette. She regarded me, and blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth, toward the window. "No, wet work isn't really your style. Of course, neither is taking me out with a rifle from a hundred yards, either. If you knew anyone who'd do it, you'd probably contract me out. Keep yourself distant and your hands clean."

"There's every possibility," I said, "that I might just as well steer this car into a concrete abutment at sixty miles an hour, and take us both out. I mean, I couldn't very well go on without you, and it's not like you could go on without me."

"Dunno. I'm resilient."

"I'm the Leopold to your Loeb, baby. The Sturm to your Drang. The Tommy Lee to your Pam."

She snorted. "I've seen the video, buddy. You're no Tommy Lee."

"Let's just keep that information between you and me, okay? Let the rest of the free world think that I've got a summer sausage between my legs. Besides, you're no Pam Anderson, either."

"Thank God," the Muse said.

"Well... yes, that's true. That would be a fairly hideous fate, I should think. Although I could use you as a flotation device in the event of a water landing."

The Muse grabbed her breasts and gave them a bounce. "I think you'd manage quite well in any case."

I glanced away from the wet road. "Think you can hold off groping yourself until we get home? You can do it all you'd like when I'm not trying to drive."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Immensely."

"Pig," she said. She tossed her cigarette out into the street, then rolled up the window. "No more groping for you this evening."

"Tease."

She nodded. "Oh yes, I'm terrible. A harsh mistress."

"We'd have to be sleeping together for me to call you my mistress, you know."

"Whatever. Like you don't constantly fantasize about me as it is."

"Guilty."

She patted my knee. "It's cute. I like being the object of someone's lust. Don't ever stop, or I'll be severely disappointed."

"I'll be sure to keep up my onanistic activities."

"You're such a sweetie. I'll have to grope myself again for you later as a reward."

I hummed. "Muse, I think I've decided to let you live."

"I knew you would. Such is the power of the boobs."

"I kneel before them."

"Baby," she said, "everyone does."