A man plucked the strings of something that was too common-he didn't have to name it to know he was playing it.
He knew the instrument as well as he knew sorrow, if the thing was an old friend-he'd cover his tab at the bar.
But he wanted to learn something new, rather to study it.
He wanted to study her.
He wanted to know why she wore dark eye shadows behind her glasses and lightly colored ones when she wore contacts.
He played a chord.
He wanted to know what she did to fall asleep each night-if it was remembering the same things as he did.
When they met. When he'd performed at her pretentious spoken word things.
He'd wondered if he'd do it again, he fingered a few familiar notes and remembered that night. Her hair was soft in his hand as he tugged it to get her attention, he remembered the way she turned.
Slow motion, under a dim light, in a dark room, her black framed glasses popped against her pale skin. He could smell the cigarette.
He'd do it again.
'I really dig your sound, you should play in front of the other people. Like a mini concert.'
'Haha, of course.' The song he played started with E Minor, he watched her sway along.