Myself, sitting, typing, earbuds are in, I am listening to music, trying to write a story. In the background, there stands a woman, she is wearing a pencil skirt, smoking one of those long old fashioned cigarette things that keep you from getting ash on yourself. Her top is tucked, her hair is tied in an oddly glamorous ponytail. If she had a real name, it would start with a hard K sound, but it would start with a c. I sit, I stroke my chin, an action that started as a joke about stroking beards that has morphed into an odd habit.

Myself: Jesus Christ, this is terrible.

Woman: *Looks Sharply in My Direction* (Whispering, She’s Always Whispering)The idea is good. Think of the work you put into these ideas

Myself: *Sighs, does a strange triangle thinking hand habit that formed from watching too much Sherlock*

Woman: *Makes to Leave, Squeezing Her Athletic and thin body through the space between my chair and the wall.

Myself: I guess I can make it work.

Woman: * Stops, leans against the wall again. Her foot are in a pair of strappy heels, yet the sides of her feet do not flub out around the edges.*

Myself: *Bobbing my head to soundtrack song* Man, I love this song.

Myself and Woman: I’ve got the world’s best music taste.

Woman: *Leans Back, her hair now down, adorned with a leather headband*

Myself: *Leans face against my hand, a habit picked up from nowhere discernable*

Every Time I do one of the random ticks, every time I chew the large knuckle of my pointer finger, when I smash up my cheek by leaning my fist against it, the woman in the corner recoils a bit. At the Habits that I made myself she stands up straighter, leans almost hungrily over my shoulder.

Myself: *Switches thought pose to the more flattering one, though no one but the woman is there. Moves out of thought pose, types more on the keyboard, Bobs head up and down to the music playing in the earbuds.*

Woman: You’re so unique you know. You and your music. It’s beautiful really, so full of spirit.

Myself: *Smiles slightly, types. Stops. Chews Knuckle. Backspaces. Chews strange inner lip bump. Types a couple of letters. Stops. Backspaces again. Does the triangle hand habit. Thinks*

Woman: That’s right my darling. Think that sentence over. For it is through thought, only through thoughts, that is when you are your strongest.

Myself: *Pinches lower lip. Removes everything from the page. Makes new document, leaving the old one titled for eventual completion*

Woman: The idea was crap anyways. One day you will succeed.

Myself: *Types one sentence. Stares. Shrugs. Makes a face. Turns off the music. Turns the off computer. Leaves.*

The Woman Stands, looking wounded. She straightens herself, wincing slightly. Her feet feel slightly pinched by her shoes. She looks after me, but does not follow. She knows that at the moment, I will not accept her.

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I Sit in A chair, playing softly with a mandolin. The Woman now wears a plain t-shirt, plain jeans. Just one look shows anyone that she is down to earth, that her beautiful face required no makeup, that she is simple, yet fun. She still whispers.

Woman: It’s amazing, isn’t it, how you can fake your way through any instrument.

Myself: *Beginning to play a harder song. Failing*

Woman: Do not fret. Laugh it off, subtly brag. You can fake your way through a wide variety of folky instruments. Be humble my dear, and they will have no choice but to laugh, no choice but to be impressed.

As she speaks, her face becomes harsher, her body slims, her hair becomes more uniform, losing the stringy hairs that had been sticking up all over the place. Her eyes smolder, she seems a bit taller.

Myself: *Looking Directly at Woman*  Heavens, but I am an arrogant sot.

The Woman Looks wounded. She chews her lip before abruptly leaving me, who begins to slowly practice the difficult section up to speed.

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I lie in a dark room, I am weeping. I clutch a stuffed duck, cradling his head as if I am the one comforting him. I have hidden these tears all day, not even knowing they were present until they began to fall after a late night thought session. My breath is silent. The Woman is nowhere to be found.
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Sometimes, the woman is dressed softly, she speaks encouragingly. She places a hand on my shoulder as I beam. Her head ducks with mine at compliments. Her laugh is a giggle that starts with her nose. She is strong and brave. She is confident and calm. When I look at her I feel warm, and I hold myself a little taller, and my smile becomes more real.

Others, The woman is by all accounts sexy. She speaks in a seductive whisper, she does not touch me. When I am complimented, she scoffs as I lower my head, and then she is there at my ear, purring at me to accept it, telling me that they are right, that I have done more than simply succeed. When I look at her, I am frightened. Hers is a standard that I cannot match, and yet... I look at her, see her standing there, daring the world to take her on. I am terrified of how much I want to be like her, terrified of how I admire her.
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Myself: God, I’m so Arrogant.

The Woman is looming over me, whispering a soft inner monologue just for me. At my words she takes a breath, she turns to leave.  As she leaves, I see another, another woman. This one is shorter, though she might just be slouching. She is chewing the bottom of her lip, she looks insecure, heartbroken. She looks anxious. As the woman leaves my bedroom, this other woman, the anxious one stops. She looks right at me with her worried little eyes.

Other Woman: You are right, you know.

The Other Woman does not leave directly, watching me as I take in her words. It is only after I have moved on, after I have begun a new though that she slips away, leaving an indentation in the carpet where she was once standing.