52. Little Wing #3
Too many places to clean up after him.
But I’m opening the door anyway.
Like a brain-dead fool.
As the door swings open, the writing room’s more graveyard than studio.
Room smells of coffee,
of clove cigarettes,
of vanilla perfume.
Candles are melted down to glass rims across the piano. Notebooks are stacked crooked next to an ashtray. Ashtray is full of pens that are out of ink.
The scarred brick wall vibrates with ghosts of songs I never finished. Guitars lean in a corner, slumped in stands, strings dusty. A few are mounted on the wall like trophies. A rug sprawls under it all, worn where I pace,
where I sit,
where I spill wine,
coffee,
mascara-black tears.
Andrew stands statue,
eyes locked on the wall,
where three guitars line up like gods.
“You’re fuckin’ shittin’ me.”
He steps in closer, glancing from me, back to the wall. “That’s the holy grail right there.” Then he stands in front of a—“‘59 Les Paul Standard. Less than a hundred left in this condition floating around in the world.”
His voice cracks mid-sentence,
and he clears his throat, embarrassed.
“Fuck—this is it. Page, Clapton, Slash—every riff you ever loved started right here.”
His fingers twitch against his pants, itching for strings as his eyes climb left to the next guitar.
“A Pre-CBS.” A short laugh jumps out of him.
“Strat like that’s worth more than my moms’ house.
” He turns fast to face me. “An’ Hendrix?
Burned one just to prove a point.” His eyes are back on it, gaze following the lines of its silhouette.
“Fuck. You could play rain or fire through her, she’ll give you both. ”
Then the last guitar,
pitch black, gleaming under the lamp.
“ES-335.” He exhales it with a slow head shake. “Chuck Berry duck-walked this whole family of sound into history.”
He has Dad’s same fever
when it comes to six strings.
“Allison, angel,” he stammers in disbelief. “You even know what you got on this wall?”
Another laugh breaks out of him,
palm lifting in surrender.
“Yeah. Course you fuckin’ do.”
I nudge my eyes toward the ES-335.
“That one’s my dad’s.”
He points at it with a raised brow.
“Your dad’s?”
He stares at the black beauty,
gutted this time.
“She’s fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathes.
And that guts me right back, how he’s looking at my father’s baby with this much awe.
“Go on,” I tell him.
“Pick one. Play somethin’ for me.”
Andrew barks a laugh,
kicking a cable to the side.
“Nah. Shut the fuck up with that.”
I drop my chin,
the next word slipping out sweet.
“Please.”
His face lights up,
as if he’s been dying to hear me beg.
He wipes his palms across the back of his jeans and stands there a beat, staring at the wall, fingers strokin’ his lip.
Les Paul, ES-335, Strat—
it’s an impossible choice.
And when he finally reaches up and unhooks the Strat, he does it slow and careful.
He slides a thumb into his pocket
and produces a battered guitar pick.
I huff a laugh, shaking my head as I look at the floor. “Of course,” I mutter, the words riding my smile.
The leather couch sinks under him.
A cord clicks into the amp,
low buzz filling the room.
He settles the Strat across his lap and sits there a beat, head bowed, palm smoothing over the curves of her body, same way he touches me.
His eyes flick up at me once,
then his fingers pluck the strings.
The notes ripple, the opening riff of “Little Wing” spilling out dirty
like mist swirling around the room
before drifting into a soulful ache.
I melt into the wall, watching him.
He doesn’t so much sing as hum the lyrics, a sandpapered rasp, an absent-minded murmur, his voice barely more than breathy friction.
It’s stripped and tracing my skin,
making the fine hairs on my neck stand.
Hendrix bleeds through his fingers,
but it’s Harding cutting me open,
sounding like heaven…
if heaven smoked Camels
and fucked lazy with the lights on.
Halfway through the lick, he looks up,
eyes lingering heavy,
that filthy grin spreading across his lips.
And it dismantles me.
After the strings go silent,
and the last note fades,
Andrew leans back,
chest caving as he exhales,
“Cristo santo…
“l’ho sentito nelle cazzo di ossa.”
I sit up taller.
“Check the back,” I tell him.
He tips the Strat forward,
eyes crawling the wood.
Then they freeze
where there’s a signature—Hendrix.
A chuckle blows out of him,
his hand raking through his hair.
“Allison, nah. C’mon.” He looks over at me. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. I just played his fuckin’ song on a Strat he once held in his hands?” He squints with a stupid smile. “You serious right now?”
After a beat passes,
he breaks free from the awe,
carefully lifting the Strat off him
and hanging her back on the wall.
I turn to leave, opening the door,
but then he’s right behind me,
arm shooting up over my shoulder,
palm flat against it and pressing it shut.
“Hey,” he whispers,
the heat of it making me shiver.
His other hand snakes around my waist.
One tug,
and my back’s flush against his body.
His mouth dips to my ear,
and he breathes out warm,
pressing a kiss to my temple.
“Thank you.”