"If you say so," The Muse said. She was smoking a clove cigarette, which wasn't as bad as an actual cig, but it was still making my house stink like an artist's garret. Of course, she's a muse, so I couldn't very well tell her to put it out. Not a smart course of action to irritate your source of inspiration.
"C'mon. You know the words. Earth below us, drifting, falling. Floating weightless, calling, calling home. Don't tell me you don't remember."
"Oh, I remember, alright. And it is rather lovely, in a silly sort of way."
"Wait a minute, maybe you haven't heard it in German. It's almost more wonderful that way." I pulled up the track on the computer and started playing it. "Peter Schilling is German, by the way."
"I rather assumed, what with the name 'Schilling.'"
"You know, you're rather a smart-ass for a muse."
She blew a cloud of smoke in my direction and adjusted her position on the sofa. "Don't be mean, or I'll take off, and then where will you be? Stuck in the middle of a chapter, that's where."
I shushed her with a wave of my hand. "Okay, here it comes, the chorus in German. Listen to that and tell me what you think."
She listened, tapping her foot against the sofa cushion and her cigarette into the mug she held. "I don't speak German. I think I like it in English better. At least I know what he's saying."
"Wait, hang on." I searched again, calling up the 12" version of the song. "Try this one. It's in English and German. Best of both worlds."
"Leave it to a German to sing about rocket ships and spacemen. How very appropriate and Werner Von Braun."
"Shush, woman. Listen to the tune."
"I've heard it a hundred times already," she mumbled, "but go ahead."
Eight minutes later, she put her cigarette out in the mug and set it on the coffee table. "Look, it's pretty and all, but I don't think it's having quite the same emotional hoo-haw on me that it's having on you. Maybe it's a guy thing."
"C'mon! 'We're standing by, there's no reply.' How can that not have an effect on you, especially when it's got a wash of synthesizers over it? It's just so sad, Muse."
She tilted her head and regarded me a moment, then said, "You need to turn off that music and get back to your book. You're just putting off working on it."
She arched an eyebrow. "Don't try to pull one over on me, you lazy turd. Open that word processor and get back to work."
"I'm waiting for inspiration, my sweet. The fingers are willing, but the brain is lacking. You're the muse here. Care to give me a hand?"
"No can do, Major Tom," she said, digging another clove from the box. "The muse is on a smoke break. Go float weightlessly over there by the computer for another ten minutes, and I'll drift your way in a bit."
She put her fingers in her ears. "Not listening. Smoking. Shoo."
"No, not shoo. I said shrew."
I hate that bloody muse.