It’s like a good dream.
He sits there in a warmly lit papasan, strumming bits and pieces of old songs on his acoustic. The glossy red cherry wood reflects the halo of light surrounding him.
With each brush of his fingers against those strings, I feel my heart beating in tune with them. When he pauses, an empty air grows heavy between us.
His toes are painted as a result of my earlier bout of boredom.
I like it best when he picks at the strings individually, giving each a short moment to be heard. This is their solo.
Now he is finished; he silently puts away his guitar and leaves a quiet void to rest respectfully in his music’s place.
I miss these moments as soon as they end.