The guitar sits in my hands. The neck is smooth and polished. The wood is cold against my bare chest. The strings are thin and feel as if they could snap from the slightest breath of air. But I dare to touch and strike a string. It rings and reverberates about the room. I begin to play a song I’ve played a million times before. My hand glides up and down the neck, finding the places that need to be touched, to be pressed to release a note, from which more notes follow. The guitar and my hands join to form something much more important than the either of them, something beautiful in its own form. I’ve done this many times before. But I don’t expect what happens next. My finger fumbles; it slips from the thin phosphor string. It tries to regroup with its other four mates, but fails and it happens. A flat note rings.

            I let the air escape my lips in a sigh that rouses the person next to me. She places a hand on my back and lets it fall along my skin till it is again on the bed sheets.

“What’s wrong? What are you thinking about?”

A thousand things rush about inside my head, but none seems to be an adequate response.