A Conversation With Gallows

She’s sitting on the counter as I walk in the kitchen. All five feet five inches of her is perched on the edge of my rickety, pockmarked table. Her eyes dance as she watches me stalk across the linoleum and nearly tear the refrigerator door from its hinges.

"I'd ask how you are but I know how much you hate that."

Her voice is low and musical. I snort rudely as I pull a bag of pretzels from the fridge. Yes, from the fridge. Heaven knows who thought that was a good idea. I eye the snack suspiciously. I hate, hate, hate items out of place.
"If you knew that, you'd know I also hate it when you point out how much I hate things."

Her gray eyes bore into my back. "I also know that you're in a mood and when you're in a mood you don't listen to sense. Everything annoys you." She swings her legs, letting the heels of her feet tattoo a rhythm against the table leg. She shakes red-brown curls for the sheer pleasure of it.
"I like it when you make me human," she says. "I know I started out life as a horse, and not a well written one either (don't look at me like that. You were fourteen, for heaven's sake) but I much prefer being human."

"And not that it matters what I think, but I like it when you stay quiet."

"No you don't." She counters bluntly. (“And you’re using too many commas again, dear”)

"No. I don't." I agree. (“My commas are just fine, thank you”) The pretzels are tucked into the cabinet. I bite my lip, mentally running through my food options. Being a vegetarian in a meat loving family limits my choices exponentially. (Sorry. I’ve been wanting to use that word forever)

"Try the veggies and dip. Something you can eat while you write."

I glare over my shoulder and she smiles, her eyes wide and innocent. She proceeds to ignore me, plucking at her black legging as she hums.
“I-I can’t decide what to write.”

“There’s the problem. You think too much. Hey, even that half crazed, depressed stuff you pound out at two in the morning has some merit.”

“And whose fault is that? That I write like a schizophrenic on crack?”

"Hey. Don't look at me. I'm not the one who named her muse Gallows. I’m not the one who has conversations with said muse whenever she hits a mental rut. Not that I object, love. But it is a little weird."

I sigh heavily, settling on an apple and six slices of cheese.
"Am I crazy?"

She pretends at being serious, but her eyes glimmer with humour. "No more than usual." She points an elegant hand towards the stairs. “Now get to work!”