Guitar

He stared at it through the window. He could feel the strings and frets beneath his fingers. He didn't know the make or model, but that didn't matter. He could see himself strumming. But he couldn't hear the notes. No melody could be heard in his ears, no music resounded in his mind.

Never before had he held a guitar.

He felt someone watching him, and tore his eyes from the beautiful instrument in the window to see a woman, perhaps a few years older than him, leaning against a building a ways away.

Her hair was long and ratted. She was wearing a large, plaid, flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. It was buttoned just barely enough to cover what she was – or wasn't – wearing underneath. She held a lit cigarette to her bright red lips. He could see a tattoo on her chest, peeking out from the flannel.

He watched as she threw her cigarette to the ground, stepped on it, and began walking toward him. His heart beat faster. Then faster still when he realized she wasn't headed for him, but the store. A few minutes later, she reemerged and shoved the guitar into his hands. She threw an arm around his neck and led him down the street.