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The douchebag in the picture grinned at me as I pried my eyes away from his crew cut.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the guitar from my friend.
He bowed with sarcastic flourish, then headed back to the control booth while I half-heartedly positioned the guitar over my thigh and continued to stare at the picture in my palm.
Who the fuck is that guy?
She wore a skintight black top under an oversize black button-down. Immediately, my shirt came to mind. But this wasn't my shirt. Was it his?
What the fuck is she doing, wearing some other guy's shirt?
“Whenever you're ready, Dylan,” Devin's voice said through the headphones.
I cleared my throat before throwing the phone aside and replying, “Yeah, man. Got it.”
My fingers took to the frets and the strings as my eyes drifted shut. I forced time to rewind and imagined New York City was right outside these walls, thriving and unaware of the woman before me or what we were about to do. What I was about to know and see and feel. I imagined her silk-soft skin, blank and pristine against mine, which was marred by scars and ink. I imagined her lips, fingers, and mouth, conjuring the figments until they felt real enough to touch.
Then, without another wasted second, I began to play.
Suffocation and damnation,
Denied the air that I can breathe.
Invisible, not invincible,
Starved for the things I need.
I pictured her turning away and going to him, whoever the guy in the picture was…
Dying from the inside out,
Help me, help me, help me.
I’m alone …
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, open-mouthed and tongues touching for me to see…
Banging against your bolted door,
You let me in, I beg for more,
This desperation’s built beyond my needs.
Open for me, I’ll open for you,
Watching, waiting, see this—
“Fuck!” I shouted as my imagination slipped his demon hand between her legs. Just as mine had months ago.
“What's up?” Devin asked. “You good?”
“No, I …” I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the neck of the guitar in one hand while the other pinched the bridge of my nose. “I dunno. I'm just fuckin' exhausted, and I forgot the damn lyrics.”
It was bullshit, and with a glance toward the control room, I saw they all knew it. But Devin nodded and told me to take as long as I needed.
“Honestly, it's getting pretty late,” he continued. “We could call it a night, if you want, and pick up again first thing tomorrow.”
My mouth tightened around a barrage of protests. I didn't want to stop. We'd been working on this album for just about a week, and we had only completed two of the twelve songs I'd written. The combination of Devin's and my separate needs for perfection and nitpicking wasn’t playing as nicely together as I'd hoped. It was a blessing in that I knew it'd be a great album, whether fans liked it or not. But it was happening slowly, and the time spent in my head with Lennon’s memory was killing me.
