It was a week full of how do you do’s and nice to meet you’s and I was very glad when Saturday morning came and went without too much difficulty allowing me to bolt for the door when noon came and head straight for the chine. Despite a pleasant and productive week, nothing beats a time-out, especially when you have my brain, I vex myself wondering how I exactly manage to put all that information in my head and understand it-not that it makes me superior to anyone, just stating a fact.

Anywho, I’d paid the cab driver and placed on my sunglasses, the piercing beams trying to fry my retinas but stopped short by a pair of Oakley’s. I adjusted the strap on my camera bag, folder tucked under my arm as I made my way down the dirt path, following the signs back to Summerton Chine. I could already hear the elated giggles of children and hearty laughs of mothers and fathers watching their children’s antics. There was a slight spring in my step, my mind hoping that Season Mally would be sitting under the redwoods with her easel and canvas once again as she informed she would be, just so I could present her with a duplicate copy of the picture I snapped of her last week. It had come out perfectly, the whole balance and vision of the scene was captured as desired and after feeling mightily pleased with myself I thought it only polite to give the inspiration a complimentary copy.

Sure enough as I stumbled through the gap in the hedges I spotted her. The black scarf covering her blonde locks, paintbrush in hand and her body bent, leaning down to blot the dripping brush on the multicolour stained rag. Smiling to myself I picked the picture out of the black folio folder and walked sprightly towards her, admiring her precise posture as she returned to her work once more, leaning in to detail something her photographic eye had spotted ahead.

’Miss Mally,’ I politely announced, standing in front of her easel making sure that she wasn’t painting on the canvas, wishing not to scare her and ruin her work. She looked up at me curiously as her lips formed a smile, her back straightening to sit upright, her brush being laid to rest in the water thanks to my interruption.

’Well Mr Hanson you have returned, the leafy green charm couldn’t keep you away,’ her chirpy voice was low and inviting, almost musically tenor her hand gesturing for me to sit up against the tree beside her.

’Never break a promise, but I did bring you the photos I took, and a copy of the one I captured of you just so you know my intentions were honourable with it,’ I handed her the picture, her fingers careful not to mark the gloss as she rested it on her lap, inspecting it perfectly.

’My my, more than just a pretty face then aren’t you?’ her giggle was purely comical, her eyes bright, slicking to look at me then back to the photograph.

’That’s yours to keep but I have to say, I am mightily proud of that one for it’s when you imprint such a vision in a negative that it makes photography worth while,’ I looked over at her canvas, the half painted masterpiece of two men sat with rods and bait boxes a little way away from the coves fishing for catches that in these shallow waters would probably never come. It seemed like an instant picture replica of the scene, her eye for detail defiantly not going to waste. It then occurred to me that we know nothing of any significance about each other, apart from a mutual creative plateau and the sheer fact that she must have seen us on the cover of last months Bop.

’Listen I was about to go and get something to drink from the log café, would you like anything?’ nothing really beats conversation over a coffee, it’s also a good distraction should you find yourself in a conversation with a half-wit, which Season Mally didn’t appear to be-but still.

’That would be nice, thank you. A coffee wouldn’t go amiss and I could use some friendly conversation,’ her smile was enough to say it all, as I stood up again leaving my camera bag and folder propping against her materials bag with a promise I’d be right back.

It had now been established that Miss Season Mally was 21 years of age, a student and freelance artist and a lover of all things creative. She lived downtown with her rabbit Snuggles and was originally from Idaho, green eyes and natural blonde hair and she could wolf whistle as good as any NFL loving jock. She now knew that I really did pee of the roof in Utah and that I could balance a basketball on my finger until I was 12, and I have to say that it has probably been one of the best conversations I’ve had in a long, long time.

’I bet it’s nice not to talk about music all the time, I’m not a big music fan, art was really my thing but I remembered you from a TV show when you said you were an avid fan of Andy Warhol,’ she continued, sipping on her coffee cup as she sat opposite me on the luscious patch of grass. Her life seemed totally free spirited, so under control and she didn’t need anyone to help her stand, not right now anyway. I don’t know what I admire more, the fact she has such an affirmed creative and critical view on arts and entertainment or just the blatant independence that just oozed from her every sentence. For once in my life I could look at a charming, intelligent and attractive woman and know the cut off point between desirable attraction and creative attraction.

’I do like Andy Warhol yes, but you can’t beat greats like Monet and Van Gogh, two very different artistic extremes,’ I replied, finishing my coffee and setting the paper cup down beside me, running my finger round the rim.

’So what does your boyfriend think of your love of the canvas?’ I asked with intent curiosity, my tone neutral of flirtatious lilt, coming across as a friendly interest. I knew though as soon as my words became audible and the happy expression died on her face, I’d hit a nerve. It almost instantly felt chilly, her eyes looking at her paint stained hands in her lap leaving me feeling like my huge size 12 foot was lodged firmly in my mouth.

’I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that in a flirtatious way, I was just merely inquisitive because I got the impression you were a taken woman,’ I stammered, her head lifting a little, returning her eyes back towards me her shoulders raising in a sigh.

’Bad break up, loved and got nothing in return and it’s just a part of me I’d rather forget, I’m happier with it staying in the past,’ her words were heavy and I defiantly felt a berk for upsetting her with my damn curious mind.

’But you weren’t to know and I’m fine, now that you do know I won’t have to say it again,’ a small pouted smile curled her lips, her cup rising to them as she swallowed the last of her coffee.

’Well Season, in all honesty you’ve well and truly made me feel small today,’ I chuckled as she sat back on her stool and set about tackling the remainder of her picture.

’Should I feel triumphant at that Taylor?’ it was the first time she had said my name today and even with her mouth chewing steadily on the fresh piece of gum in her mouth it still sounded wonderfully gravely.

’Indeed you should, just goes to show pretty soon you won’t even need us lowly males to pro-create! Your one independent and wise lady and I’ve ever faith you’ll pound the crap out of anyone who stands in your way,’ Okay, I know that just sounded like a complimentary flirt and, coming from me with my track record most avid fans would take that as exactly that but this time, inside of me I knew otherwise. Season was just too smart for me to flirt with, her beauty and sassiness bled into all areas of her life and for someone like me, regardless of what I’d achieved in my life I felt very small. Small in the sense that I’d met a woman who wasn’t at all afraid- except for a quite obvious fear of not being loved.

’You talk as if you fear me and as if we will never meet again, now surely Taylor you don’t think I’m going to let your creative mind slip from my grasp? Mr Muse?’ her eyebrows raised cheekily, a smooth lop sided grin raised a huge grin from me as I got the vibe that Season Mally desired a friendship with lowly Taylor Hanson.

’Well I don’t know about that, I mean my Christmas card list is long enough as it is and oh I don’t know about being Mr Muse… but on the other hand where would I find such constructive criticism of my photography? My father just points and clicks so I suppose, be grudgingly we can call this day the start of a beautifully creative friendship,’ I was playing on her, pretending to weigh up the pros and cons of Season Mally and her pending offer of friendship. Unfortunately, before I could decide, proclaiming with a pensive and thoughtful look that it was most defiantly a ‘toughie’ decision, I was greeted with smatterings of water flicked over my face thanks to her large paintbrush.

’ Geez, well when you put it like that Little Miss Cheeky how can I possibly refuse?’ I laughed as I snatched the brush from her and flicked water her way in a playful gesture that I was just as pleased to find someone who would act as a getaway from work and could be just a friend, plain old friend, buddy and mate. A muse for a muse…

’Your seriously telling me that you can’t draw anything?’ I guffawed loudly as I took the pencil I had handed Taylor out of his clumsy hands and preceded to show him the correct was of sketching running water.

The light was starting to fade a little but we were still sat here, acting so much like long lost friends and still very much strangers, the surface of our lives only being touched lightly by today’s banter. I had to admit after our brief and chance encounter last week, I didn’t think I’d see him back at the chine, the idle promises of a celebrity who didn’t want to appear rude was all I had thought. I didn’t know of him well but living in LA you can’t help but here who’s in and who’s doing what during the course of the week at university. The fact he had returned and also been polite enough to bring me a copy of his photo told me something, I’m not exactly sure what then but as the afternoon has unfolded I think I’m starting to understand it. It is not that he is lonely, displeased with his work or the path life is paving for him. It’s not that he wants a quick fuck after a concert and it’s not that he wants a female companion that would pose on his arm as candy and then hit him up for the latest Vera Wang for the next red carpet do. I’m not 100% sure I know, but I think it’s just a creative muse, someone who’s not a musician and who isn’t attached to their entourage to just talk lens’, filters and aseptic vision with.

I could tell he was being careful not to come across flirtatious, the times I’ve seen him on TV he seems to be totally oblivious to his flirtatious traits but right now and this afternoon he seems to be very aware and is watching his words, even though he really doesn’t have to. He was attractive, intelligent, charming and charismatic and I just knew that he was the muse I was looking for.

Right now though I was teaching him how to sketch down a plot before you paint, having used up his last remaining 8 pictures on the camera roll he was looking for an activity to absorb himself in before he had to leave in just over and hour and step away from his hobby and back into the job he loved equally as much.

’For someone who can play instruments your not very good with holding a pencil!’ I laughed as I showed him how to tilt the pencil to get the different shades of the lead.

’You obviously haven’t seen my writing, scruffy as hell, we all have scruffy writing but they do say musicians are terrible as artists, well-young ones anyway!’ he sounded like a little school kid who was trying to make up excuses on why he couldn’t do well in his art class and it was simply endearing.

’I think your trying to help the helpless Season, maybe I’m just not cut out to draw, I praise your persistence though,’ there was that wide, lippy smile the one that pushed his cheeks higher and squinted his eyes into little pursed slits of shattered sapphire. It was enough to melt even the coldest of hearts and the darkest of skies and even though my heart wasn’t going pitty-pat and my breath wasn’t hitched tightly in my throat, the cogs in my head were turning at an alarming rate.

’Your right, it’s starting to turn to dusk and no doubt your family are wondering where you are,’ I bundled my brushes together with an elastic band and tipped my water out at the base of the tree, slowly stuffing everything back in my old army surplus bag before folding my stool and easel up. He stood to help me, holding my freshly finished and still slightly wet painting with care, holding open the battered olive bag.

’You know Taylor, there’s something I want to ask you,’ the cogs in my head had finally stopped whirring and had put an explanation on my erratic thoughts.

’Sounds ominous,’ he chuckled, pulling a serious face as he zipped up my bag after tucking my mixing palate, wiped clean with the rag, in safely.

’No seriously, I’ve had a great time today and it’s nice to find someone else looking for a creative muse,’ I replied, lifting the strap of my bag over my shoulder, tucking my easel and stool under my arm tightly. I waited for him to pick up our trash and his belongings as we started to walk out of the, now peaceful chine.

’Well it’s nice not to get asked to sign your sketch book or where’s the other two so I’m glad I can be of help,’ the infectious smile returned, aiming our paper cups up expertly before tossing them into a trash can a few feet away.

’No Taylor aside from that, I really wanted to ask but I’m not quite sure if, so early on and without knowing you that well it’s okay but…,’ I paused, knowing full well that I was sounding like the bumbling village idiot. He turned to me and took the stool which was slipping from beneath my arm as I tried to just say what I wanted to like a sane person, his expectant look and his cheshire smile were exactly the encouragement I needed.

Clearing my throat and breaking out in matching grin I announced my request, regardless of my fear of haste.

’Mr. Muse, I want to paint your eyes,’