Taming the varsity player
She leaned sideways toward me, whispering out of the corner of her mouth, "Okay, never mind. Let him stay. Let him stay forever."
"Whenever you're ready," I smiled, gesturing toward the center of the space.
He unlatched his case, pulled out the gorgeous cherry-red Gibson, plugged into the amplifier, and took a breath. The moment his fingers hit the fretboard, a rich, melodic rhythm flooded the garage. It was smooth, effortless, and locked seamlessly into the exact soulful indie-pop chord progressions I loved writing.
"Oh, wow," Tasha breathed aloud when he hit the final chord, nodding enthusiastically. "You rock! And I don't even mean that just because you're wildly attractive."