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“Sayyesssss…”
She giggles.
When I reach over and brush the hair from her face, she turns to me. And when I cup her face and lean in to taste her lips, her cheeks flush.
“Say yes.”
I sear my lips to hers, devouring her until I feel her breath catch and her lips break a millimeter apart from mine.
“Yes.”
25
Jackson
We eat first.Because no genius ever has come on an empty stomach. And of course, there are drinks. Because genius also never comes sober.
I mean, at least personally speaking.
It’s late by the time we both head back to the studio. But, as with empty stomachs and stone-cold sobriety, no great musical genius has ever been written before a late hour. That’s just fucking scientific fact.
Probably. Maybe.
With the lights low, we sit at the counter, each of us with a guitar, a pen, and a notebook. For the first hour, we’re just sorting through ideas, trying to match lines with certain vibes—basically trying to separate everything into the right piles. That done, Melody picks one at random, and we get to work.
I show her a couple of chord progressions I’ve been monkeying around with. And I hum a few melody lines, too.
“What about…this one.”
She pulls one of the scraps of paper towards us.
“This line as the start of a chorus. I love the internal rhyming and the sea metaphor.”
I grin. So do I, on both counts.
I strum a few chord lines, shifting the tempo and cadence until it just clicks with the line she’s picked.
“That’s it,” she blurts, just as it clicks with me at the same time. “That’s the tempo. That’s the feel, just how you just did it.”
I nod, repeating what I just did as I try singing the line.
Fuck me, that’s catchy.
“Damn,” she breathes.
“Catchy, isn’t it?”
“That’s a hook right here.”
I look up, and she grins at me.
“What’s next?” she says eagerly.
“Next, we just need to write the rest of the fucking song.”
“Oh, that’s it?”
“I know, right? I don’t get why more people aren’t writing hit, internationally successful songs.”
