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Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
I stood up and kicked one of the cement posts holding up the awning. I kicked it again, harder, while the pain did nothing to dull the edge off how much I wanted him and how, no matter what I did, I still couldn’t seem to make it right with him. In my head it sounded like Tidewater were thrashing loud and I beat my fist against the post. My own voice screaming seemed far away: “What the fuck is wrong with you!”
I picked up my keys and ran to my room. The stereo was on, as always–I snapped the Tidewater disc into the player, and twisted the volume knob. The first drum hit struck me in the chest and the first guitar riff ripped through my head.
The only guitar that wasn’t in the practice room was a secondhand electric Gibson Epiphone that Colin had trash-picked when he lived in J.P. and gave to me because he didn’t want it. Perfect. I slung it over my shoulder and matched the song riff for riff, thrashing my head in time and spinning in place, singing even though I could hardly hear myself, at the top of my lungs. The next song was equally hard and loud, and even though I didn’t know it as well, I ripped through it, working up a sweat.
Somewhere along the way I broke a string and hardly noticed until the song ended and I stood there in the silent gap breathing hard.
Something was tapping on my window.