He adjusts the chord voicing and plays it a third time. Thistime it settles into something. I can feel it, the way a thing clicks into place.
A melody that catches.
He exhales. “There it is,” he murmurs. He plays through the melody again, slower. “All right. Getting the music. The words are being difficult.”
“They'll come.”
He glances at me sideways, then pulls a Sharpie from his pocket. “I had a notepad. I swear I had a notepad.” He pats his shirt pocket, his jeans pockets. Looks around the truck bed. “Damn it.”
I can’t help but grin at him. When did I start thinking this grumpy cowboy was so adorable?
“Forgot something?” I say.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Like I said. Rusty as fuck. I need to get the words down before they go. Once the thread's there I can follow it but if I lose it…”
He looks at me, calculating now.
“I don’t have paper,” he says. “But I’ve got you. Hold out your arm, baby.”
“You want to write on me?”
“You're my muse.” He says it simply, like it's just a fact he's stating. “Seems right you'd be the page too.”
His muse. I feel the smile spread across my face, luminous and shy and more pleased than I can ever remember.
“Okay,” I say. I push the quilt aside and hold out my arm, wrist up, like an offering. “Come on. Before you lose the thread.”
His eyes meet mine as he uncaps the marker.
These are the first words Walker’s written in two years. It’s a big moment.
And it’s my skin he’s writing them on.
He takes my hand in his and turns my forearm up andholds it for a moment, looking at it the way he looks at the guitar when he's deciding where to start. His thumb traces the inside of my wrist once. Tingles go all the way up my arm.
Then he puts the marker to my skin.
The tip of it is cool, a little scratchy. I watch his face as he writes, the concentration there, lips moving slightly, the line between his eyebrows.
Walker’s introduced me to all kinds of forms of intimacy, but this is a new one. The intimacy of being written into his creative flow.
Like I’m part of his art too.
“What does it say?” I ask.
He shows me.
I read it. Read it again.
It’s about me. About us. A moment in our story, made into poetry. I can already tell this isn’t going to be like the one-note love songs of his sixth album. This one is going to be passionate and complicated and real.
Thank God.
“That's good,” I say softly. “That's really good, Walker.”
“Yeah?” He picks up the guitar and fits the words to the melody and plays it through. Hearing it out loud, the words on my skin, now part of a song, gives me a shiver despite the warm night.
“What’s next?” I ask.
