sincere expression. “Luke, I’m serious.
This is amazing. Thank you.”
“You haven’t even played it yet.”
“I know, but…”
“ Here. ” I
reach in my pocket and pull out a pick. “It’s a 1mm. Hope that’s ok. I think I
have other gauges in the case.”
“This is fine,” she assures me.
“Seriously, I’d play with a soda can tab right now.”
“Um, not on my baby you won’t.”
She giggles, then seems to forget about me again. I’m fine with that, loving every second of
watching their connection.
When she starts to play, I almost catch
my breath.
“ Flying high as you watch me fall.
Twisting in your beautiful lies, bravo.
Hats off to your elegant show.
Take a bow, my acrobat.
You’ve won the crowd, it’s yours now, sweet acrobat. ”
I’m captivated by her voice, her
fingers on the strings. The effortless flow of her music. I love that even
though she’s playing my guitar, it belongs solely to her in this moment. When
she finishes, I have to fight the urge to just tell her to keep the damn thing.
It clearly belongs to her. I take a deep breath and force a smile, not at all
sure what to do with the sudden storm raging inside me. She’s in love with that
hollowed-out piece of wood, that much is clear, and it’s turned her face into a
masterpiece.
“One day,” she whispers, staring down
at the instrument, tracing her fingers along the smooth surface. She glances
back up at me, as if remembering my presence for the first time and gives me an
electrifying grin. “She’s gorgeous, Luke. Seriously. Just stunning.”
I swallow, managing only a quick nod.
She is.
“You’re turn,” she chirps suddenly. “You
play something now.”
I stare at her in disbelief. “Huh?”
“Um, yeah. All you, rock star.”
She jumps to her feet and hands me the
guitar. I instinctively take it, but can’t imagine doing something as intimate
as play a song for another soul a couple feet away. I can play a live broadcast
in front of millions without breaking a sweat, but this…
“Maybe another time,” I say, oddly
embarrassed.
“What? No! Please? Just something
quick! Doesn’t have to be fancy. I have to hear this girl the way she’s supposed
to be played!”
“You just did! You’re a fantastic
guitar player.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. I’m
fine, but everyone knows very few can touch you on that thing. Please, Luke!
When will I ever have a chance to watch Luke Craven play a 1943 Gibson J45 two
feet away? Don’t make me beg, because I will, then hate you for it!”
I can’t stop the shy smile and shake my
head. “Ok, ok! Fine! Geez.”
She actually does look relieved when we
switch spots so I can sit this time. I’m still hesitant, but am starting to
feel more comfortable now that I have a guitar in my hands. As I search my head
for what to play, I can suddenly think of only one song. I haven’t played it in
ages, but it was one of the first I’d mastered. I’d learned it as a child, then
embellished on it over the years, almost turning it into a different piece. My
father used to play it all the time, and to this day, I don’t know if he wrote
it, or it was just a lesser-known favorite in his repertoire. Either way, it
always held a special place in my heart.
I start picking out the elaborate
intro, almost classical in its styling, and let my fingers and instinct
takeover. Nothing else matters when I play, and I forget all about the
awkwardness of the close quarters, even the beautiful woman staring at me in
awe a few feet away. It’s just the music and I, my father,
memories of the few brief moments of happiness sprinkled throughout my painful
life . I wonder if my face looks like Holland’s had a few minutes ago. I
don’t dare to look at her to find out.
I sing a few verses of the song, adding
to the turns like I always do, playing with each chord, each note, like it
might be possible to discover a new one this time. I never do, but I’ve
combined
This is amazing. Thank you.”
“You haven’t even played it yet.”
“I know, but…”
“ Here. ” I
reach in my pocket and pull out a pick. “It’s a 1mm. Hope that’s ok. I think I
have other gauges in the case.”
“This is fine,” she assures me.
“Seriously, I’d play with a soda can tab right now.”
“Um, not on my baby you won’t.”
She giggles, then seems to forget about me again. I’m fine with that, loving every second of
watching their connection.
When she starts to play, I almost catch
my breath.
“ Flying high as you watch me fall.
Twisting in your beautiful lies, bravo.
Hats off to your elegant show.
Take a bow, my acrobat.
You’ve won the crowd, it’s yours now, sweet acrobat. ”
I’m captivated by her voice, her
fingers on the strings. The effortless flow of her music. I love that even
though she’s playing my guitar, it belongs solely to her in this moment. When
she finishes, I have to fight the urge to just tell her to keep the damn thing.
It clearly belongs to her. I take a deep breath and force a smile, not at all
sure what to do with the sudden storm raging inside me. She’s in love with that
hollowed-out piece of wood, that much is clear, and it’s turned her face into a
masterpiece.
“One day,” she whispers, staring down
at the instrument, tracing her fingers along the smooth surface. She glances
back up at me, as if remembering my presence for the first time and gives me an
electrifying grin. “She’s gorgeous, Luke. Seriously. Just stunning.”
I swallow, managing only a quick nod.
She is.
“You’re turn,” she chirps suddenly. “You
play something now.”
I stare at her in disbelief. “Huh?”
“Um, yeah. All you, rock star.”
She jumps to her feet and hands me the
guitar. I instinctively take it, but can’t imagine doing something as intimate
as play a song for another soul a couple feet away. I can play a live broadcast
in front of millions without breaking a sweat, but this…
“Maybe another time,” I say, oddly
embarrassed.
“What? No! Please? Just something
quick! Doesn’t have to be fancy. I have to hear this girl the way she’s supposed
to be played!”
“You just did! You’re a fantastic
guitar player.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. I’m
fine, but everyone knows very few can touch you on that thing. Please, Luke!
When will I ever have a chance to watch Luke Craven play a 1943 Gibson J45 two
feet away? Don’t make me beg, because I will, then hate you for it!”
I can’t stop the shy smile and shake my
head. “Ok, ok! Fine! Geez.”
She actually does look relieved when we
switch spots so I can sit this time. I’m still hesitant, but am starting to
feel more comfortable now that I have a guitar in my hands. As I search my head
for what to play, I can suddenly think of only one song. I haven’t played it in
ages, but it was one of the first I’d mastered. I’d learned it as a child, then
embellished on it over the years, almost turning it into a different piece. My
father used to play it all the time, and to this day, I don’t know if he wrote
it, or it was just a lesser-known favorite in his repertoire. Either way, it
always held a special place in my heart.
I start picking out the elaborate
intro, almost classical in its styling, and let my fingers and instinct
takeover. Nothing else matters when I play, and I forget all about the
awkwardness of the close quarters, even the beautiful woman staring at me in
awe a few feet away. It’s just the music and I, my father,
memories of the few brief moments of happiness sprinkled throughout my painful
life . I wonder if my face looks like Holland’s had a few minutes ago. I
don’t dare to look at her to find out.
I sing a few verses of the song, adding
to the turns like I always do, playing with each chord, each note, like it
might be possible to discover a new one this time. I never do, but I’ve
combined
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