ceciliatan

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

We got into a cab in front of the hotel in St. Louis. The weather was a hot drizzle, with the temperature around ninety and the air like soup. The cab driver was a black guy who definitely didn’t seem to think he had anyone but maybe a couple of college kids in his cab. Ziggy was still in stealth mode and I didn’t gel my hair or anything, just pulled it back in an elastic which meant the red streaks weren’t all that visible.

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

(Thanks to your generous donations of this past week, you have triggered a Saturday post! Enjoy! -ctan)

Of course I didn’t smash a mirror in rage. Instead I ragefucked Ziggy which made us both feel much better about life and everything, and cleared my head enough for me to listen to his explanations.

It was one of those explanations that started with “I should have told you about this sooner,” which I expected.

But everything he said after that wasn’t what I expected.

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

God, my heart. Even now years later I can still remember how my heart tried to beat right out of my chest when I caught sight of him, and what he looked like, leaning against the cinderblock under ugly fluorescent light, teal shirt, white jeans, face blank but his eyes on fire.

Okay, maybe a lot of the heart-pounding was a mix of show adrenaline with worry adrenaline shooting my blood pressure through the roof, but insert all swear words appropriate to the situation here. Fuck. You can see why people say things like “I thought I was going to die.” Objectively there’s no way that’s good for you, right?

I didn’t care.

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

I woke up with one of those hangovers that feels like a railroad spike through the eye socket, but I didn’t much care because I had an armful of warm, sleepy Ziggy under the covers with me and I was too out of it to really remember where we were or what year it was or anything. Maybe it’s stupid, but it was moments like that, where I couldn’t remember there was anything to be anxious about, and his skin smelled familiar and everything felt right about having him cuddled up with me, that made me think there was something worth fighting for there–something I was thirsty for, something I needed–even if once I came to my senses we’d start fighting again.

But right then I didn’t come to my senses. I dozed despite the headache.

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

(Happy US Thanksgiving, everyone who celebrates it! We’re offline today, cooking and eating, but we’ll get back online over the weekend! -ctan)
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I don’t know what genius invented it, but let me say for the record that meatball pizza is awesome. Maybe it was a stroke of necessity: maybe one day a pizza guy was out of pepperoni and he thought, well, damn, maybe I should just slice up the meatballs I have for meatball subs, and put that on there? But I prefer to think it was a stroke of genius.

We got slices to go from the window on the street at the pizzeria and took a walk while eating them. The meatball was a little tricky to eat and walk with since it couldn’t be folded in half as easily as plain cheese, but it was worth the extra work.

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

I’ll confess I got a little anxious when I tried to call Ziggy before going over to his place and got a recording saying the number was out of service. I know he had said his phone service was probably off, but I had this moment where I suddenly worried that he had left the country again. It felt like poison slowly coating my insides. I told myself I was being stupid. I was halfway there on the train when I realized I probably should have brought his bag with me. Whatever. He could get it later.

It was about half past three when I buzzed his apartment number from downstairs.

Up there I found him with a black and brown smudge on his cheek, wearing a T-shirt inside out, running shorts, barefoot. He had a paint brush in one hand. The artist kind, not the house-painter kind. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry. I found a piece that was half-finished and the next thing you know I started working on it, and is it after three already?”

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

The room was a corner suite. I stepped into the parlor room. The furniture looked like it was someone’s grandmother’s house. Someone’s rich grandmother, I should say. Tony waved me toward the door to the bedroom, which was open.

“I’ll be right outside in the hall,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll knock three times if Digger’s coming.” And then he–very thoughtfully–left the room completely.

I stepped into the doorway, my hands jammed into the pockets of my denim jacket, and leaned on the doorframe.

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It Ain’t Over Til It’s Over

Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)

Joyride

Hang In Long Enough

Touch and Go

Epic

Never Enough

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