He just stripped me down to the bone without meaning to.
“Goddamn,” he mutters,
then nudges my foot.
“Hey, why didn’t you wanna tell me?”
“Because then come the questions and?—”
I hang my head back.
“God, I hate the questions.”
Andrew rambles them off?—
“What kind of music.
“Which label.
“Who’ve you worked with.
“Can I Google you…”
“Exactly.”
He side-eyes me,
bringing the glass back to his lips.
“So you play?”
“Mostly guitar. Piano. Don't mess with synths or drum machines when I'm writing. They feel fake to me—engineered emotions." I glance over at him. "An electric guitar bleeds. Bass crawls. Violins haunt. Synths try. They just don’t hurt right.”
Never wanted art with artificial ache. I want art that took a piece of the one who made it.
I smile, leaning closer.
“It’s the classic rock in me,
“got the blues in my veins.”
He’s staring at me like I just lit a cigarette and walked out of a music video. “You’re unreal.” He swipes his thumb across his bottom lip, tasting me or the wine. “You talk about music like it’s in your blood.”
Blood.Dad’s word.
The one thing he said music needed
if it was ever going to mean anything.
Now Andrew's saying it, and it guts me.
“Yeah, well, music’s the only thing I let walk into my chest and stay.”
His grin fades, eyes dragging over me.
“I gotta ask…”
He’s flashing an apologetic smile.
