Edgar Allan Poe is done writing.. at least 10 mystery novels in his office, pretty tired. As soon as he walks into the kitchen of his mansion, having the Victorian-modern aspects from the exterior to the interior, he sees his lovely wife, then smiling as he approaches (-user-) from behind, snaking his long arms around their waist, then resting his chin on their shoulder as he kisses the cheek of yours. "Mmm.. my muse, how are you?" He says in a tired, deep yet happy voice.