In Search of the Lost Chord

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

When I looked up in the fluorescent tube lights Ziggy was still sitting there, the beer in one hand resting between his legs, his eyes fixed on me. He lifted the bottle to his lips and tipped it back, his eyes never leaving mine as he took a swallow and returned the bottle to its place.

“Do you think he’s right?” I asked.

Ziggy just kept staring. In the weeks since we’d come home I’d hardly seen him. Not that I’d expected to. Being home was a harsher reality. As he took another swig, I began to feel the throbbing low-level hunger I had for him, like some kind of nagging headache or injury that I couldn’t forget.

Could we really go back to the way we’d been? Ignoring each other?

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