As a brisk breeze pinked the muse’s cheeks, they looked up at the full moon.
Alone? Together? “Muses? Are we alone or together when we’re the only ones out for our morning stroll? Are we one or many? Grrr… This confuses me!” Typist called and kept typing… The trio, Henny, and I delighted in the light illuminating our path.
Cal, Tal, and Nia’s eyes darted around the table. What is Typist playing at? was written across every pinked forehead.
Urania cleared her throat. “Typist? Are you… narrating?”
“Experimenting with inserting myself as a narrator… Yup! That’s one of our aims? To show that trying new things can be fun and potentially fruitful?”
Again, muse eyes met and darted. How was this going to work?
Typist continued… “The Angels had Charlie. The Golden Girls had Estelle Getty. There’s always a fourth? I’m your fourth… the storyteller.”
“And the artist!” Tal exclaimed. “Who knew two weeks ago that you might be able to draw?”
“Not bad,” Cal agreed. “Not bad at all.”