You don’t always get to pick your muses
I once knew an ex-sex worker that broke my heart. It wasn’t… It’s not like that. She was only a friend. I should have been smarter. More aware. More sensitive to her mindset. The first time I had coffee with her she stated in no uncertain terms “I’m not a huggie bitch so don’t expect anything from me”. After that we agreed on a fist bump as our go to greeting/good bye gesture. She had read everything I’ve ever written by that point. I’ve never met someone who knew my stories so well that they could quote things back to me. And w hen I say that we spent almost every day together for the better part of several months I mean that. She asked me once how long we'd known each other. I told her 2 weeks. She said it felt longer, and I couldn't have agreed more. There was a dichotomy to her. She spent many of her formative years in Italy. Which while it meant she adamantly did not want to be touched at all , her sense of personal space was more European than American. In