“I’m just finding writing hard today, “ he said. “I can’t think of anything.”

“I’m glad you came over,” she said, cheerfully. “Here, have a beer! It’ll help you relax. And, y’know- maybe be more creative!”

She placed the bottle in his hand. He took a sip. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “Most of what I write when I’m drinking tends to not be very good.”

"Drink up!” she said. “Maybe you'll find the story at the bottom of this bottle!"

He looked at her suspiciously. “Are you planning something?”

“Usually,” she said, cheerfully.

He narrowed his eyes, teasingly. “Are you trying to get me drunk to have your wicked way with me?”

She said nothing and just smiled- notably wickedly. 

Looking her right in the eyes, he took a very intentional, very deep drink of the beer.

With a teasing casualness, he took off his shirt.

About 20 minutes of talking and flirting later, he was feeling much more relaxed- but unfortunately just as uninspired on the story. It felt like any good ideas were just out of reach. 

“I can see you thinking,” she teased, bringing over another beer for herself from the fridge. “My my- you are determined. Relax- I’m sure it’ll come to you.”

He took another sip. “It’s just weird for me to not have any ideas like this. Usually I can think of something.”

“I’m  confident you will, eventually. In the meantime, let’s toast to your muse!” She held up her bottle.

He sighed, clinked his bottle with hers, and took a long, last sip.

He had to admit- that was pretty refreshing. 

He put the bottle down. As he was placing it on the table, he noticed that some of the writing on his left hand had  started to smudge a bit.

Wait.

Waaait.

There was writing on his hand?

He looked at first one, then the other hand in shock. The writing was there too- small but clear letters making words making sentences that wound up  and up his arms. The words continued down his shoulders and seemed to dip down into his jeans.

He ran the bathroom mirror. 

He was covered in text. 

She appeared, fully smirking, besides him. “What did you do?” he asked.

“Well, it was mostly you,“ she admitted casually. “It’s your story after all. And you  actually wrote the first part of it on yourself for me. I just helped when that became more...difficult.”

“I don’t remember that at all!” he said, completely astonished (and, he had to admit, completely turned on). 

She gave him a long kiss. “You’ll remember it as you transcribe it. Let me get you something to write with.”

“Besides,” she winked, “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the ending.”