Some nights, most nights, he'd make sure to include a solo guitar break for himself.
Some nights, it was him showing off. Just being flashy because he could. He still had it all in his fingers.
But some nights, he had his band with him, and he'd step aside to let the better guy do it. And that's when she found him "tangled in his Telacaster". When he found himself lost among the chords.
She closed her eyes and could hear the guitar spin yarns about that girl with the wavy blonde hair, all the way down to her butt. Rapunzel. And that girl in the harem costume. Waves of wigs, wiggling hips. And that hair spread out on the bed. "Golden Hair Across Your Face"
She heard all sorts of places they were. That funny little intersection that night in Irvine, was it a school, was it a detour? Driving into LA at 5am, him so sleepy beside her. The horizon line red with early morning and the ocean to their left.
Getting lost in Lexington, the proposal that never happened. Blaming him and not blaming him. She was not blaming him these days.
The glory of Bamff.
All these sights that he must've seen in his life, repeatedly. And how big the state of North America wa to them.
Once upon a time, he had declared touring to be one long, dark tunnel, with brief moments of light. When you are onstage, blinded and suddenly in front of thousands, hundreds, dozens. Someone. Waiting to hear you play.
She heard him play a chord and repeatedly visit it, go back to tickle it again. "The long road stretches out ahead, a half a million miles"
She thinks of all the horizons and view through their shared windshield.
She thinks of all the familiar places she's driven through. How some roads feel like train tracks, groove worn in them so deeply that to vary an inch seems impossible. She thinks of the specific emotion of pulling up to the view of your house, or your friend's house. Or the house where you grew up. For the millionth time, for the last time. For the first time in years.
If the car is their only home, if they know its view better than they know the driveway of the house, if they know how it feels to ride side by side, then everywhere is home to them.
She thinks that this view, from the stage is getting to be familiar to her, that the tunnel of her life is all in shadows. That the back of his head, his thinning hair caught in the spotlight, is the sight of her home. And she wonders where his home is. If he ever has one. Or appreciates it when he finds it.
"We've Only Just Begun" Stevie Wonder
Some nights, it was him showing off. Just being flashy because he could. He still had it all in his fingers.
But some nights, he had his band with him, and he'd step aside to let the better guy do it. And that's when she found him "tangled in his Telacaster". When he found himself lost among the chords.
She closed her eyes and could hear the guitar spin yarns about that girl with the wavy blonde hair, all the way down to her butt. Rapunzel. And that girl in the harem costume. Waves of wigs, wiggling hips. And that hair spread out on the bed. "Golden Hair Across Your Face"
She heard all sorts of places they were. That funny little intersection that night in Irvine, was it a school, was it a detour? Driving into LA at 5am, him so sleepy beside her. The horizon line red with early morning and the ocean to their left.
Getting lost in Lexington, the proposal that never happened. Blaming him and not blaming him. She was not blaming him these days.
The glory of Bamff.
All these sights that he must've seen in his life, repeatedly. And how big the state of North America wa to them.
Once upon a time, he had declared touring to be one long, dark tunnel, with brief moments of light. When you are onstage, blinded and suddenly in front of thousands, hundreds, dozens. Someone. Waiting to hear you play.
She heard him play a chord and repeatedly visit it, go back to tickle it again. "The long road stretches out ahead, a half a million miles"
She thinks of all the horizons and view through their shared windshield.
She thinks of all the familiar places she's driven through. How some roads feel like train tracks, groove worn in them so deeply that to vary an inch seems impossible. She thinks of the specific emotion of pulling up to the view of your house, or your friend's house. Or the house where you grew up. For the millionth time, for the last time. For the first time in years.
If the car is their only home, if they know its view better than they know the driveway of the house, if they know how it feels to ride side by side, then everywhere is home to them.
She thinks that this view, from the stage is getting to be familiar to her, that the tunnel of her life is all in shadows. That the back of his head, his thinning hair caught in the spotlight, is the sight of her home. And she wonders where his home is. If he ever has one. Or appreciates it when he finds it.
"We've Only Just Begun" Stevie Wonder
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