maybe if she had been called beautiful before with so much drive, she wouldn't have been so
stuck
on the one drunk boy from the street.
but he had meant it in such a way―
she was doomed right from the start.
༻❁༺
―on a girl with bad days, the first b...
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「 I 」 SIX.
the street they ambled along was like a daytime version of the one on which Morrison had d r o w n e d her in his whiskey. he was walking beside her, and her left side was afire with his close proximity.
he slowed to a stop before walking through an unfamiliar door, barely glancing at her to ensure she followed.
jolene's music.
a music store.
guitars lined the walls, acoustic on the left and electric on the right. vinyl records and cds sat in the center. miscellaneous instruments stood in the back, hopeful that someone would make the journey back to them.
everything was used. donated cds and resold pianos. it smelled like a simple form of home.
"why here?"
he shot a small yet overwhelming smirk her way. "why not, Presley?"
she wasn't able to correct him before his eyes landed on an acoustic-electric guitar, single cutaway, on the left wall. he rushed to it like it had grown magnetic due to the intensity of his gaze. he stood before it. watched it. ran his fingers along the fretboard. brushed the strings with his thumb so
t e n d e r l y.
she wasn't sure if she had ever wished she was a guitar before, but there was a first time for every-damn-thing.
how many firsts had she already experienced in his presence?
when he started to play,
her whole entire world
paused to hold its breath.
that.
that was probably the end of her.
chords she didn't recognize flowed from the instrument, out of tune yet perfect.
then he began tuning the strings by ear. somebody who only practiced guitar casually couldn't do that.
"do you have your own guitars?" she asked.
he looked up at her, eyes dreamy. he was e n t r a n c e d, and it made him all the more mesmerizing.
but she wasn't the cause of his hypnosis, no. it was the instrument weaving its way between his endlessly long fingers.
"i..." and he regained himself, putting his enigmatic façade back on. the music might have overwhelmed him just as much as he overwhelmed her. suddenly, Morrison was beginning to suit him. "why d'you think i come here, Presley?"
she barely noticed what he called her because, for one, it felt right anyway, and for another,
there was loose hair falling in front of his face in soft curls,
and didn't he want to move it? "right," she said, falling into his trance.
they stood there in the clouds together, ignoring the oncoming rain.
his strumming continued. she was lost in it.
until he looked up at her. "don't you play anything, Presley?"
then, somehow, the classical piano training that had been forced on her since birth seemed like it wasn't enough. no, in his presence, she knew nothing. and her mind hated every second of it. and her heart loved every last glimmer.
"not really," was what she ended up saying, and just like that, all the piano she'd learned was gone.
he looked at her, seeing completely through her unnervingly. "that's not convincing. tell me what you play."
"nothing of substance. nothing like this." she gestured to the worn guitar still resting beneath his gentle fingertips, hoping her eyes conveyed her plea to drop the matter altogether.
instead, his eyes darkened. "there's no music without substance, Marguerite."
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