Crash
It's pure, undiluted torture watching Kelly play my guitar. She rounds her shoulders over the instrument on her lap—a little big for her—and lets her hair fall past her face in a way that half-obscures it. Her graceful fingers shift on the frets and strings in the way that shows she's practiced enough it's becoming natural. She still has to look sometimes. Occasionally stumbles or forgets to press hard enough. But mostly she's just beautiful. I swallow a lump in my throat.
Someone else taught her to play.
They put her fingers in the right spots.
Leaned over her shoulder to point to a section of the fretboard.
Corrected her fingering.
Took her wrist in their hand to relax it when she strummed.
I shove my hair back with both hands, tapping my foot on the deck, and belting the song so she can harmonize with me, and fuck. I forgot how good it felt to make music with her.
