Many moons ago, Mr. John Wiswell promised a young(ish) girl a story about a guitar named The Danni. Since inspiration has not struck him, I decided to take matters into my own hands/pen/keyboard. It doesn’t have the humor or the wit of Sir John, but I gave it my best. Enjoy.
He sucked in a breath and wrapped his elbow around her curves, tucking her in close. The feel of the smooth wood against his body relaxed something deep inside.
He held her like a lover. His touch whispered across her lines. Holding his breath, his hand trembled with anticipation.
He let his fingers fly, caressing her strings with the passion of a love too deep to comprehend. Her fire burned in his chest as each strum vibrated against his ribs. The music pouring through her freed his mind from every care save the beauty of her sound. His spirit took flight on the wings of her song.
Heart pounding in time to her rhythm, escalating until the final strum, a single perfect note, hung in the air. He didn’t dare breathe, afraid to disturb her perfection as the last echo faded to a whisper.
The silence shattered as applause broke out, followed by whoops and cheers and lighters raised high. Chest heaving, a smile sprung to his lips as he chuckled to himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d forgotten they were there.