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

We played until about one in the morning when Colin came down and said he had to get up for a temp job at 8am. Bart and Michelle went home and Christian and I watched half of a late night movie before he fell unconscious on the couch. Of our other two housemates, there was no sign of Lars, and Mike was currently driving a van across the country with Miracle doing small dates. I shut the TV off, took a shower but didn’t bother to shave, and went up to my room.

I was only aware of having fallen asleep after I woke up–I opened my eyes to find the overhead light still on and my hair still damp. I got up from my mattress to shut the light off. Something tapped against the window like rain. My fogged brain had some recollection of that sound–the sound that woke me. I went to the window.

Now that I was listening for it, the noise was clearly driveway gravel hitting the glass. I turned off the light so I could see outside and there was Ziggy, about to lob another handful at me.

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

At midnight Christian and I returned to the hotel, wired on espresso-latte-bombs, and everyone else seemed to be conked out. Except Ziggy, who was nowhere to be found.

I spent an hour trying to read the contract and decided, yeah, I would definitely have to get a lawyer to read it. Maybe Watt could recommend someone. Good thing we were going home tomorrow.

I spent another hour tweaking the strings on the Ovation, playing around with that thing Tread and I had started. I was starting to call it “Windfall” even though it had no lyrics yet. When I got tired of that I stood in the hot shower until my fingers turned soft. At 2:30am Pacific Time, I got into bed and wished for a book to read other than the Gideon Bible; one of Matthew’s mysteries would have been perfect. I lay still in the dark and felt the caffeine wearing off, but I couldn’t sleep.

At three Ziggy still hadn’t come in. The more I tried not to think about where he might be, the more my stomach churned.

He’s not yours, I told myself. He likes to fuck you and you like to fuck him and it’s damn convenient when that works out, but you don’t own him. I thought about how, the past few nights, he’d been there, and this morning… was it only a week ago he’d begged me to show him what it was like? What happens when he gets tired of you? When he wants to go back to women? Then, what? Shut up. Just don’t think about it.

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