Reverie

Blisters on her fingers.

She hasn't played in a while. Her fingertips are still raw, soft.

Weak.

No, not weak, she thinks. It's hard to contradict old thought patterns, but she does it anyway. Begrudgingly offers kindness.

I just need time, she tells herself.

And plucks a note.

To get acclimated.

Another note.

Back into the swing of things.

Sounds travel through a coiled cord into oversized headphones. Reduced to this in a tiny apartment. Have to be quiet, not bother anyone.

The notes don't reverberate in her chest like they do on loudspeakers, but she doesn't mind.

For now, this is enough.

Her hand slides lovingly along the instrument's neck. Fingers enter familiar patterns against steel strings.

She tweaks a knob on the small box of an amplifier attached to the guitar's base. The noise coming through her headphones is suitably distorted now.

She cranks the volume.

It almost sounds like an engine. Her lips quirk into a smile. She strikes a chord that mirrors an airship motor's revving.

She stands, and her playing picks up speed, fingers dancing along the frets, moving between low and high tones, notes chasing one another. Her mind wanders as she's lost in musical reverie, picking up the pace, slowing, gaining speed again. She hums, moving in and out between verse, chorus, and bridge like a ship darting between clouds.

As the sounds come to a crescendo, she throws her head backward, sustaining a single note as long as it will hold. She lets go with one hand and braces the instrument against her side. The final note rings out and waveringly fades.

At last, her thoughts return to reality. Her apartment's beige walls come into focus. The air is warm and stuffy. The stinging of her fingers reduces to a dull ache. She's tired, she's sweaty.

She sighs.

It feels good.