I can hear the reverberating strum of Ian's electric guitar as I insert the key into the front door. A kind of
and I don't hardly know her beauty that melts my senses every time. The drums, whose percussion and rhythm I dream about conquering in my 20 minute practices, roll into a steady beat that you often lose yourself into even when I'm sitting inches away. Today I am entering our little house after a spinning class- the hood of my gray sweatshirt shades my eyes. I climb up to the doorway of our musical space and watch the show- a brief voyeur. Ian laughs upon seeing my partial Rocky partial P Diddy character.
"It's my new look," I tell him, shoving my hands into my sweatshirt pocket. "I'm into hip hop these days." I smile and wink at him, but Ben proudly cuts in.
"It's true. She really is. Some at least." You are so proud in a very low key way- I just know it. It makes me happy.
I think of the way you sometimes play your own electric guitar while I shower an evening out. You, playing Crimson and Clover (over and over), and the way I adore live music and the way it echoes off the walls into the bathroom. My own private concert. Thank you for being with me- in the good, the bad, the ugly, and even my angsty-ness when I can't stand another 60s western. I love you, Ben.
