Her moods flow in gentle waves. The coffee of her irises swims with sadness then lifts into whiskey gold with the twang of my guitar. Left to ourselves in the back lounge, our silence is sinuous, laced with stories from my hometown, Skala, and Nadia’s anecdotes from growing up in a cult. But when we’re quiet, my fingers itch and find my guitar. Toy with strings and enunciate emotions she tries to conceal.
Sometimes, my riffs turn to ballads while lyrics splash out in patches of color in my head. Sometimes, when Nadia curves a hip to get comfortable, my gaze float to her waist and shifts to her chest. The game of my chords turns loaded, adding a steady, slow beat, the way I do to make her climb when we’re together.
Without words, she still hears my hunger. Watches my fingers work metal strings with a need that becomes X-rated. And she sits up. Joins her legs and lowers her chin to her knees, demure, secretive, hiding behind her hair in shyness and not understanding that she’s sexier than ever.
All these females. So many women and vixens with a past, a present, and a future—a full life I never wanted to be a part of. But now, I crave to bury deep under the skin of a single girl who is not single.
It’s been a while since I spoke last, so my voice rasps deep when I say, “You kill me.”
“I don’t want to kill you. Do you know the person you are? How talented you are? You deserve so much, Bo, you don’t even know, and the last thing you need is dead weight like me.”