The guitar is practically glued to him; she rarely sees him without it. As soon as he comes home from work, he carefully washes his hands and then flops on the couch with the instrument in his lap. He plays quietly, without paying attention to it, but every note that comes out is beautiful.
She's always sure to listen, even though she can't let on that she is. She's leaning back against the singer on the couch across the room. She's his, he won't let her forget it, he won't stop reassuring her of his love.
Maybe it's the relative silence of the guitarist that draws her in.
She's careful to look away if he glances her way. She doesn't let their fingers touch when they pass the joint. She never offers to help him carry his equipment for a gig, even though she's trotting after her man empty-handed.
They're all working hard, she knows this. They're practicing and playing and writing. They live in a small apartment to save money to record an album. They want to get out of this town and move somewhere with more opportunities and fewer constraints. She wants to be along for the ride, but she doesn't want to ride anyone's coattails. She helps as much as she can, but her parents won't let her work when she's in school, and they don't give her much pocket money. She just wants to get out.
His guitar playing accelerates and her eyes dart over to him. He's still staring off into space and she wonders if his playing is a translation of his thoughts. She feels the urgency too. She can't last much longer, not like this, not here.
284 words
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