ceciliatan

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

Remo’s room was halfway down the hall and he fished a card key out of the breast pocket of his jacket. His was a standard room, two double beds and a window that had the same view as one of ours, no historic bridges in sight, just downtown buildings and other hotels. The hardshell case lay between the two beds.

Remo took his jacket off (so as not to scratch the guitar with the brass buttons while he played) and then popped open the case and propped the guitar in his lap. He dug a pick out of the jacket and rang the strings. Steel. They had a brash sound unlike the Miller’s mellow nylon. He plucked out a riff and then spun through a few familiar chord progressions.

“Ah, jeez, I can see your hands itching,” he said as he swung the guitar by the neck to me on the other bed. I took the pick, too.

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