When I was in Alberta, in my freshman year, I was at a bar and in walked 7 of the most beautiful women that I'd ever seen. I later learned that they were Faith, Liberty, Melody, Justice, Harmony, Irony and Rachel. These were seven daughters of Poseidon, muses. The Seven Sisters made their way about the bar and plied their charms to the effect that only Justice paid for her own drinks that night. She could have gotten them paid for by any of the men fawning over her, but she paid for it out of principal.
I'm naturally shy, and so it was quite appropriate when Irony came up to me and we fell to chatting. We talked about everything. She had stories, I had stories and we were both deeply interested in the other's. I haven't clicked like that with a girl before or since. We fell to just looking comfortably into each others eyes and I realized that I was completely, totally and forever, not in love with this girl, and that she was completely, totally and forever, in head over heels for me. It's not that she wasn't attractive. She's an immortal deity, cousin to wood nymphs and Aphrodite, daughter and niece of gods. In short, she was radiant. That's just the way it works with her. Cursed that no man that loved her (and there were many) would ever receive her love in return, and that no man she loved could ever love her in return. Irony isn't bitter about it, a bit wistful, but not bitter.
The problem here arises that immortals have a tremendous sense of entitlement. For them, love need not be reciprocal (which is perhaps why irony never became bitter) or eternal either. The lifetime of a man is such a small thing to the immortals that although Irony loves me intensely, and will continue to do so until I die, it is but a passing infatuation to her. Consequently, over the centuries, a muse may love many men, and at the very moment that I was simultaneously realizing her infatuation with me and my perplexing lack of it for her, and still at the peak of susceptibility to her suggestion, she said "have you ever considered growing a mustache? I think you would look so good with a handle bar mustache." Apparently she was thinking of how similar I was to a young man that she fell in love with in 1875, and how she had adored his mustache. The suggestion of a muse, even a passing one, is not subject to rational inspection. A man who has had Justice or Liberty whisper thoughts in his ear is throughout his life a good man, even when it is to his detriment, so long as those whispers are with him. Those muses love a good man, and their whispers stay with him so long as they love him. Irony hadn't meant to suggest that I grow a handle-bar mustache. She didn't even think about it really, but there it was, the whisper that would stay with me. Perhaps because Irony is fickle, my like for the mustache is too. I realize that it looks ridiculous in the 21st century, but as I said, it is not subject to rational thought.
At the end of the night, she understood what her role was. Her sisters were complaining lightly and trying to drag her away, that is except for Faith who wasn't worried and Liberty, who didn't care. Irony said goodbye and tried to kiss me. I dodged the kiss artfully and had no idea what my role in all of this was other than that I should grow a stupid looking mustache and that it would look good on me. The Seven Sisters exited the bar and disappeared into omnipresence. Irony loves me, I know it still. Here jealousy and constant interference with my life is a daily reminder of that, and so is the mustache.
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