ceciliatan

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

“What do you mean you’re not coming to New York?”

Carynne knocked me on the head with her sharp, little knuckles. “That’s what I’m trying to get through your thick skull. I’m going to Maine.”

“Maine.” We were sitting in the Vietnamese noodle place near the house, having each consumed a bowl of soup bigger than our heads. “You don’t have family in Maine…?”

She sighed. “No. But Gerry does.”