When she heard his music it aroused something wild, harsh, and beautiful that was inside her. This was the music of her soul. She met him when she was eighteen on a summer afternoon inside a New York City Subway station. Under his arm he had tucked his first album—a jazz album. Later he would receive a MacArthur Genius Award for this music.
It was overwhelming. In the hotel room she danced for him, pale and sinuous. You are like a Modigliani, he said. You have a quiet beauty. She bit into his neck when they made love, marking her territory. Later he divorced his wife—or she divorced him. It started with the bite on his neck.
He overwhelmed her. His music. Her music. He was thirty-four, suave and cool—yes cool—and she was as naïve as a baby in her young eighteen year old body. Hormones glowing. Sex blowing through her.
She was his muse.
But he had already composed the best music he ever would, although later albums would bring him far more acclaim .
Who was she? A nothing. A crazy girl full of desires and confusion and a magnetic power she did not know how to control.