Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
I sat down at the kitchen table. Remo poured me some coffee and Ziggy poured in the cream and pushed the cup toward me. I wrapped my fingers around it.
“You look shell-shocked, kiddo,” Remo said.
“What the fuck was that all about?” I tried drinking the coffee to see if anything would start to make sense.
( Read the rest of this entry » )Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
It was full-on rush hour when we got to the New York metro area, and getting down to Ziggy’s place in lower Manhattan took over an hour. When the limo dropped us off at last, I was feeling slightly car sick and I just wanted to lie down.
I did that while Ziggy made some phone calls. He took the phone into the office and closed the door, I guess so he wouldn’t disturb me? Or maybe so he could talk about me. I don’t know. For an otherwise uneventful five-hour car ride, given how little we had spoken, it had felt like an emotional rollercoaster. I didn’t even know how I felt: up, down, or turned around.
( Read the rest of this entry » )Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
Ziggy returned a short while later with a bag of groceries from the bodega a few blocks away and a pizza.
“Barrett dropped by,” I told him, while we sat on the wide sill of the window with the open box of pizza between us. “To make sure I was the reason you weren’t answering the phone.”
Ziggy clucked his tongue. “I keep telling him if I haven’t already turned up dead in a ditch somewhere I’m not going to.”
I hooked his ankle with mine when he said that. Because I couldn’t not.
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