Tortured Muse

From his window, he watched the people below mill in and out of the art gallery across the street. A new exhibit had just opened. Some well known figurative painter or something. The paintings looked crude to him from what he saw on the gallery’s website. But what did he know? He wasn’t an art critic.  The day was gray and rainy, and he was surprised by the number of people who did not have umbrellas. But they seemed happy.  Even the old man with glasses and mustache leaning up against the wall looked happy, his swollen arthritic knees making his khakis hang oddly. What a drag it is getting old.   He watch the people laughing, hugging, meeting. A whirlwind of activity. He sensed the joy, but could not relate. With a sigh, he went back to his work. And the people below became nothing but ghosts.