I jump out of my seat.
“Ask him to play my song,
the one he’s writing for me.”
“Play Logan’s song,” she tells him.
He glances in my general direction,
then focuses on her.
“Dylan told him?”
She nods when I nod.
“Brat can’t keep a secret.”
Mickey sets the guitar in his lap again,
tunes.
Tunes some more.
And then some more.
Tunes
tunes
tunes,
But never plays.
Krista shifts in her chair,
stretches her bare feet,
which are probably
falling asleep.
Her movement stops Mickey,
fingers on the guitar’s pegs.
He lowers the head
and lets the instrument
roll forward,
strings facing down
in his lap.
“I haven’t written it yet,” he says.
“Not one note, in all these months.”