Epic

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

I’ll confess I got a little anxious when I tried to call Ziggy before going over to his place and got a recording saying the number was out of service. I know he had said his phone service was probably off, but I had this moment where I suddenly worried that he had left the country again. It felt like poison slowly coating my insides. I told myself I was being stupid. I was halfway there on the train when I realized I probably should have brought his bag with me. Whatever. He could get it later.

It was about half past three when I buzzed his apartment number from downstairs.

Up there I found him with a black and brown smudge on his cheek, wearing a T-shirt inside out, running shorts, barefoot. He had a paint brush in one hand. The artist kind, not the house-painter kind. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry. I found a piece that was half-finished and the next thing you know I started working on it, and is it after three already?”

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