“Not your fault.” She threw a gaze at me.
“What came first: your health store or your eating habits?” I asked, watching her place the dishes on the wooden rack and wipe her hands on the dishtowel. It was a detail I needed to know, but also one that amused me, thinking about the pure things that went into her body.
“I took alternative medicine courses, focused on nutrition, so it began then. I wanted to go to med school but … I couldn’t afford it and … I couldn’t afford it,” she repeated with finality.
Which was probably why she had insisted on keeping her shop—she couldn’t afford to lose that substitute dream, as well, even if she couldn’t literally afford keeping it and had to marry me to save it. The first thing about her that I could relate to.
Her eyes were on me, and her head did that quick nodding that implied that it was something she hated remembering or admitting and just wanted to be out with. Something about the expression on her face made me recall the strange combination of ironclad frailty I felt holding her in my arms that day in San Francisco. I felt sorry for her but couldn’t imagine this vegan, pristine woman dealing with internal organs, blood, and corpses during a medical degree.
“What about you?” June circled the dining bar and went to the L-shaped, off-white upholstered sofa. How she kept it stainless with five nephews and nieces, I couldn’t imagine. My mother always said she couldn’t have anything nice with the five of us at home.
I remained at the counter. Despite the separate sections of the studio, there was a clear line of sight between us.
“I didn’t even finish high school.” I kind of wanted to see her reaction to that.
She remained still.
“I dropped out completely the year before last.”
“To do what?” Pragmatic June asked.
“Hang out with my friends, break into cars, drink in the park, have fun with the girls, important stuff like that.”
She remained still. “How did you—”
“Get into guitars?”
She nodded.
I uncrossed my arms and came over to sit on the breakfast bar chair that was closest to her. “One day, instead of doing all that with my friends, I walked around the city center and entered a small shop on a side street. There were only designer clothing boutiques around it, so I went into the only shop that looked interesting.”
June’s sudden smile—they always seemed sudden— encouraged me to go on.
“There was one salesperson on the floor, and he was busy, so he let me sit there. There was a workshop at the back that you could view through a large window. I loved tools; the only class in school, except English, I liked was carpentry. The smell of the wood, paint, polish; the tools, the precision.
“The man in the back was working on two guitars for two hours. When I left, the salesman said I could come anytime. So, I came the next day, and the next, and the next. They taught me how to hold a guitar and a few simple chords. I taught myself to play. I taught myself electronics with books and old boards they gave me. Luigi, the owner, let me sit with him in the workshop and explained what he was doing.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen. At twenty-two, I played Neil Young, and U2, and Led Zeppelin in a covers band, worked as a salesman on the floor, and helped Luigi at the workshop. At twenty-four, I could assess within a few minutes what was wrong with any instrument and how to fix it, so he moved me full-time to the workshop.” I skipped the part where customers had called meThe Guitar Whispererwhen I told them things like, “Rattly neck; she needs a bit of strengthening,” or “You’ve been using her wrong; a little chafing, changing buttons, and tenderer care, and she’ll be good as new,” and that Luigi had called meThe Ragazza Whispererbecause I could assess the girls I went out with as I did the guitars.
I took up my phone, opened its gallery, and moved to sit on the corner of the L-shape. “This is Luigi, the shop, that’s me with the cover band, and here I’m at the San Francisco workshop.” Our foreheads nearly touched when we both bent over the screen to swipe over the pictures.
“Did you ever study this officially?” June raised her face, and we found ourselves looking at each other from up close.
We both leaned away from one another.
“I tried applying, but I was rejected because I never completed my high school diploma.” The last thing most women I showed these pictures to cared about was education. They were usually already undressing me with their eyes.
I wasn’t hoping for that now, but I noted the difference.
“And how did you get to the U.S.? Jerry said you arrived for that NAMM conference and that your employer from Italy closed up shop so he offered you a job here.”
“So, you know.”
“You won contests, Jerry said. Something about strings?”
“Fastest stringer, fastest tuner—things like that. It only means faster than anyone who participated that day.”
