Who’s half a twitch from snapping a string on his guitar—a Fender Jaguar looking like it chain-smokes and drinks before noon.
I can hear the flat chord from here,
interrupting Whore Whisper Hour.
(Not slut-shaming. Chill. She’s not a whore. Obviously. It’s just the alliteration. The bit. Like—Welcome to Whore Whisper Wednesdays.)
And Mikey’s the only thing keeping me from lunging over the booth and gnawing off her face.
He’s tuning unplugged,
with no amp, no pedal, no shame.
He pulls out his phone and opens a tuner app.
That’s when I step in, crossing the space,
sinking my knee into the cushion next to him,
half-kneeling and facing him.
Mikey startles, eyes flying up fast.
Yo, I’m trying to run away without actually running away.And you opened a tuning app for fuck’s sake. The judgment’s active. Full music-nerd mode.
Too late to turn it off.
Now distract me.
“Don’t listen for it. Feel it, ” I say,
my hand slipping over his.
He stills, gripping the neck while I lean in.
“Fifth fret on the low E, seventh of the A.
“You’re matching them—string to string.”
Mikey’s brows pull in
as if I just asked him to translate sheet music.
My smirk slides in. “What’s the matter?
“Thought you were lead guitar.”
He pulls in his bottom lip, narrowing his eyes.
“You’re really gonna insult me while fondling my fretboard?”
I inch back, raising both palms.
“You want help or nah?”
Mikey smirks. “Shit, yeah?—
“I’ll put my fingers wherever you want.”
