"I love this song," the Muse said.

"I don't get it. He wrote a song called 'Yellow.' And everything is yellow. This is yellow, that is yellow. I don't think he's in love. I think he has malaria."

She stuck her tongue out at me. "I think you're a curmudgeon."

"You know I'm a curmudgeon. It's one of my skills."

She started dancing in place, shaking her beautiful Muse-rump back and forth. "I wouldn't necessarily call it a skill. More like a character flaw."

"My hate keeps me warm, Muse."

She stroked my forearm. "And your skin is so soft and silky. Just like a baby's ass." She spiraled away from me before I could poke her. "If we could just do something about that grumpiness, you'd be all set."

"Bite me," I said. "And then bite me again for good measure."

"I would, darlin', but you'd like it too much."

"'Your skin unfolds,'" I quoted. "Now he's a serial killer, and he's gonna wear her skin. 'It puts the lotion on its skin.'"

"You're such a romantic."

"Thank you. I knew you cared."