"Who is that woman in your latest cartoon, the one with the long braid down her back? Is that me? It is, isn't it?"

Ralph lowered his glass of milk, cleared his throat and stared off into his studio.

"Well?" she demanded.

Ralph had the uncanny ability to suspend time in his mind ever since he was a kid in school. When he was anxious, he could recreate the sequence of events leading up to his present predicament, hoping things were really okay. He never grew out of that.

They'd been together for about six months now, having met at a country and western gin mill in Walnut Creek. She was the resident dance instructor. He became a regular, sitting at the bar, watching.

Ralph had been covertly observing her animated dancing using the mirror behind the bar trying to lose himself behind occasional sips from a bottle of ale. The dance floor was well lit with different colored spot lights. The western-style costumes that emphasized, glorified and defined Ruth and the way she moved ever so poetically, turned everybody's head. Certain dance steps tended to accentuate the positive, he reminded himself, imparting extraordinary emphasis to the simplest of her movements. Those short cha-cha steps drove her hips to rock ever so slightly, wavelike, in a forward-backward motion with the tempo.

She started every dance class the very same way, with the back of her Wranglers facing the class, right arm extended over her head, bent slightly at the elbow, her face to the left watching the class over her shoulder, listening to the beat and catching the last four beats with her body and arm. Five, six, seven, eight, and the beauty of the night began in tempo with the music.

From the vantage point on his stool in the subdued light at the bar, Ralph sipped some more ale. Of all the women in the room he thought, only she carried that charismatic characteristic. No others came close to her in the movement beauty contest in his mind. One winner, no runners up.

When she moved her left leg, her whole left half came alive. She'd take the next step in perfect timing, propelling the other half of her body in harmonious motion. She stirred it, dropped it, shook it, bounced it, wobbled it, eased it, maneuvered it, always in the best of taste, sensuous without being obvious. A classy gal with a sense of

cohesiveness about her movements, beautiful lines transmogrifying tender flesh into poetry.

Beautiful form, a thing of beauty of itself, follows function, he thought. But with motion, this form creates another dimension of beauty. Dynamic beauty is altogether

another order of magnitude, on another plain entirely. How do I translate all this into a cartoon? I suppose the jeans help the body part's talents and project them, but the entire body in motion, with all the parts performing their individual magic, orchestrate a symphony of motion that rivets. Pure joy. "Gotta get this on paper tonight," he said aloud, pivoting on the stool to face the dance floor. He hoped the bright dance floor lights would keep her from noticing his riveted eyes.

During a break in the line dance class, Ralph watched her walk over to the other end of the long bar, step on the bar rail with one boot, extend a leg back, and reach behind the bar to grab a plastic water bottle with a long plastic straw. Her reach created a smooth outline straining the confines of her shirt tied in a knot at the waist. As she quenched her thirst, his fantasy fulminated.

"Not the beverage of choice in your average western bar," he said, grinning at the bartender. The comment went unnoticed, preoccupied loading beer into the under counter refrigerator.

She took a few more sips, turned to look at him, put the sports bottle down and keeping tempo with the music playing on the CD player, she two-stepped over to him with arms akimbo, bare mid-riffed, bright eyed, in full command of her domain and confronted him. "Howdy, I'm Ruth. I've noticed you studying the different dances for a while now. Would you like me to show you a few of the steps?"

Caught way off guard, he squeezed his ale bottle, his thumb rubbing it from side to side. "Gee, er, ahh, I don't know, I'm a bit of a clod I'm afraid. Oh... er, my name's Ralph." He extended his hand.

"Hey, don't be bashful, the lessons are free until seven."

"Don't have boots on," he said, shrinking back a little and shaking his head slightly.

"Come on Ralph, you've been staring for weeks. Surely you've learned something." With an imploring look, she stretched out her arms.

"Can't turn down that invitation," he said, nearly spilling the remnants of his ale as he separated his hand from his bottle. "Okay, lets do it." He dismounted from his roost, embarrassed at having been taken unawares and failing to blend into the background of belt buckles and Wranglers. "I should have bought a cowboy hat," he mumbled.

Ralph saw the men at the bar watching Ruth scoot over to the CD player and bend to push the play button, bringing up a slow Brooks & Dunn "Tush Push." For the first time Ralph was actually beside the vision he had been visually consuming the past few weeks from his barstool.

What could he say to her? He sucked at small talk, always a spectator, not a player. He scrambled for something to say out of the chaos in his brain. "How do I pick out the rhythm? How do I know when to start? What foot do I use?"

"This is how you start the grapevine step. Watch me," Ruth said.

"You bet I will."

"They sure like to sing about lost love, railroads and other tragedies don't they," she said, joking about the dismal songs of the melancholy western tunes. Relieved at the end of the song, Ralph turned to her. "Okay, refreshment time." He rubbed his moist hands together and hurried back to his barstool. The back of his shirt was wet from shoulder to shoulder.

"I only teach dancing part time," she said keeping up with him, raising her long blond braid off of her neck to cool herself. "I sell cosmetics full time."

Ralph deliberated. What a waste. That combination of facial features, flawless soft complexion, the way her forehead blended so neatly into the straight nose, the prominent cheekbones, and the smooth chin and jaw line. And the incredible way she moved. Cosmetics? She's a knockout without them.

The next CD began with a loud drum strike followed by a fast paced, deep bass electric guitar and a high pitched fiddle. Ruth literally pulled Ralph back under the lights of the dance floor. "Five, six, seven, eight, step."

"I'm a failure", he said. "Can't do this. Can't concentrate on the stupid footwork." He knew he was too close to her. "I can't watch my feet and you at the same time." God, I shouldn't have said that, he thought. She's so magnetic. "Sorry Ruth, can't concentrate."

As the music drew to an end, Ralph quickly suggested they have a drink. He ordered two Calistogas.

"Hey, I know you can't keep a tempo, but lets try a different dance. How about the Boot Scootin' Boogie or a two step?" Ruth smiled as she raised her plastic bottle to her lips.

"How about we just talk. Its after seven." Ralph looked at her reflection in the bar mirror.

"And what do you do?" she said, parking herself on the adjacent stool.

Fire. He could feel her body heat radiating like a potent aura from her dance floor aerobics. He felt vulnerable to her energy. He put the bottle of sparkling water to his lips and gulped a mouthful. The effervescence flooded his mouth with lively, tasteless bubbles while he searched for something to say. Her proximity short-circuited his concentration. She even exuded sensuality sitting on a bar stool, all the marvelous dance floor kinetics at rest. Ruth unplugged, he thought.

"I draw a mystery story cartoon strip for a newspaper," he blurted. Her perfume permeated his imagination. He felt lightheaded, uneasy.

"A cartoonist for mystery stories. How intriguing."

He stopped fingering the bottle of mineral water and worked through a smile. Gradually, she disarmed him with lively chitchat. She even had a good sense of humor.

"I'm in the process of developing the characters for my next story line. I'm already two stories ahead of my deadlines."

"What's it about?"

"I'm doing a series about a stalker. It's a popular theme now."

"I'd love to see it."

"You want to check out my etchings?" he said. They looked at each other and broke into laughter. They were still laughing as they went out the door headed for his

place.

While Ruth was absorbed in looking at his current drawings, Ralph drew a caricature of Minny Mouse dressed in Ruth's denim shirt tied at the waist, and her shorts.

"How cute," she said. "I loved reading the strips. Kinda like living in a comic book."

In a few weeks they were living together in his studio. He bought a pair of cowboy boots.

Ralph's new mystery cartoon strip became syndicated and gained wide popularity. He began to draw scantily clad ladies into the stalker mystery strip.

"When is the stalker going to get caught," she said.

"Not for a while yet".

"How long do you think you can keep him sneaking around, watching her, before readers lose interest?"

"Weeks."

"Hope you're right. I'm going into the kitchen. Need anything?"

"Nope," he said with a smirk. "Got everything."

He watched Ruth undulate out of his small studio, then began to develop the next set of panels for the strip. He spent plenty of time on the outline and details of the strip's heroine, erasing elements of his creations when they became too explicit. His editors loved the illustrations but Ralph never showed them his originals.

That night, after finishing dinner, Ruth put her hand on Ralph's arm gently and asked, "Where do you get your ideas for your comic strip?"

Ralph froze. While her hand was on his arm he memorized the anatomy of her long, delicate fingers and manicured nails. Once again, looked at her arm, the bend at the elbow, her smooth feminine upper arm and junction with the torso, shoulder and neck, and her classic cheek bones and soft jaw line.

"They just come to me," he said after a short pause. "I have an old interest in anatomy, comes from my graduate days while working as an illustrator for the Zoology Department's newsletter. That gave me a flair for accurate musculature and realistic bone structure."

"But, how do you pose the figures you draw?"

Avoiding her eyes, pretending to be occupied with the residual sauce on his plate, he said, "I, er, just check people out and draw them."

Ruth lowered one eyebrow, looked at him, shook her head then said, "Let's get to the dishes."

"I'll dry," he said.

Later, back at the storyboard, Ralph drew in all the male characters in the strip for the next few weeks, getting further ahead of schedule. He drew men with deep eyes, heavyset brows and square jaws. Some characters also appeared with a beer gut, somewhat Disneyesque. He frequently drew a handgun holstered beneath their jackets.

When Ralph drew the heroine, he lavished time on details. His females had wider, more oval pelvises, which brought their hip sockets further out to the sides, imparting a certain intensity in their movements.

Quietly, Ruth looked over his shoulder. A long quiet inhalation abruptly caught Ralph's attention. "Oh, hi babe, what-cha-doin? You surprised me."

She pointed to the first panel in the strip. "Hey, those shorts look a lot like my new ones. Take away those high heels, change the braid to blonde hair and that could be me in that window."

"Don't be silly, I'm drawing everywoman, a composite of lots of people," he said avoiding her eyes, leaning over closer to the board.

She sauntered out saying, "Gonna do some research."

Ralph began to feel an uneasiness he hadn't experienced since that night on the dance floor. He went into the kitchen for a snack. Hell, maybe I've overdone the illustrations. She has a curious look in her eye. He watched her go into the garage where he archived his work in old file cabinets.

Damn. What if she sees panels that connect her with my stalker story? I should have told her. She's no dummy. She'll catch right on that I'm the damn stalker. Shouldn't have dragged this story out so long.

Ruth burst out of the garage into the kitchen and ran right into Ralph standing by the sink having Orios and milk. "Oh, your substitute childhood security blanket?" she quipped.

"What's the matter babe, you look upset." He spilled crumbs from his lips.

"You look kinda like the way you looked when I first walked up to you and asked if you wanted to learn to dance. What kind of a look is that, Ralph?

She stared at him with eyes that could paralyze.

"Who is that woman in your latest cartoon, the one with the braid down her back? Is that me? It is, isn't it?"

He lowered the milk, cleared his throat and looked off into his studio.

"Well?" she demanded, her penciled eyebrows lifting, forcing ridges in her forehead.

Ralph gagged.

"What's the matter, got a crumb in your craw? You've been spying on me, haven't you?"

The glass slipped and dropped to the floor. Milk splattered at their feet.

"Okay, okay," he said, looking at the shards of glass. "I took some of you and used it in the strip. You're perfect for it." He moved his head up and slowly met her eyes. "I can see questions all over your face. Your makeup can't hide that. I should have told you. I'm sorry."

He stepped over the shattered glass and pressed her to him. She was a stiff, unyielding maniken.

"I'm sorry, Ruth, really." He kissed her cheek.

She was taut. She'd lost all of her feminine softness that he took pains to personify in his strip. He was holding a cold statue. He couldn't think of a damn thing to say. Holding her rigid shoulders, he moved apart from her with awkward tenderness. A chill engulfed him.

"I love you," he said, searching for some sign of life in her face. "I know I should have let you in. I should have shared. Forgive me."

She looks like a robot, he thought, the way she's moving her head, cautiously, mechanically. With her fine jaw set, she looked through his eyes, searching for the truth. In cold control, she said, "Which is it, love? Compulsion? Obsession? You Creep. How many other women have you been spying on?"

Ralph could feel himself losing control. He was getting clammy and weak. The pharmacology and physiology of love, the instant adrenaline rush, the blood pressure drop, he wanted to remember that for his next story.

Very gradually, Ruth regained a more life-like persona. Her flesh color returned, her body assumed its normal texture and temperature. The rigidity faded. She's back, he thought.

"So that's how you get your ideas for your strip. You sneak around people's lives for a living."

"I'll always bring you into my thoughts from now on baby. You're part of me, and my inspiration."

"I'll need some time. You should have let me in on your scheme, I'd‘ve loved to have been a part of your work." She melted away from him, her eyes moist, and turned her determined face toward the door. "You're a gutless sneak, Ralph. Why couldn't you have been honest with me?"

He watched each step in slow motion as she headed towards the front door, as if in his comic strip, one panel at a time.

"She's a poem," he said aloud. "Something like 'She Walks in Beauty, Like the Night', or whatever." More than just movement, she was je ne se quoi defined-- stunning

poetry, one beautiful line blending into another, step after step.

Ruth faded from his view like a sunset. Ralph began to hyperventilate. "A thing of beauty is a joy forever, except for sunsets, rainbows and Ruth."

Shaken, Ralph went back to his drawing board, circled his arms on it, and put his face into the void saying, "Christ, I really screwed up." He felt the crashing realization of not being able to go back and undo anything. Ralph closed his eyes, felt the clammy moisture of his shirt sticking to him, and in his comforting inner world, escaped into sleep.

The portable phone, buried beneath layers of mostly finished drawings next to his elbow, buzzed. He jerked himself into sudden awareness, not exactly knowing where he was, and searched for the phone in a panic. The answering machine began with its, "You know the drill, hang up... or leave a message."

"Hell, what time is it, how long was I out?" he said, still searching for the phone.

"I'm sending a friend for my stuff." The disconnect click was loud, echoing like a hangover.

Ralph ransacked the pile of drawings, found the phone and dropped it in his haste, cracking off the plastic cover to the mouthpiece.

"Ruth ... Ruth," he shouted into the broken phone. There was no tone. Swearing at himself, he flung the phone into the next room. "Damn, I should have run after her. Why did I just stand there and watch her go? What the hell was wrong with me?"

Moments passed. Ralph found himself standing there, weak and lost, chilled, staring at the drawing board as though waiting for the next panel in his life to be drawn.

There was no inspiration.