2012 Short Fiction: The Maharaja

 

She smelled of tone wood and instrument polish, but to me the smell was seraphim. She was beautiful, slick, and clean. She sang out uncertain at first; gradually, she came up to pitch. She repeated this warm-up exercise moving from low to high. First, she sang an E, then an A, and a D; next, she sang a G, then a B, and another E. Now that her throat was clear, she was ready to perform. To me, her song was ancient and sacred. It was the sound of an Angle’s harp ringing up to heaven. I played accompaniment with a purpose that was not my own. I felt otherworldly and possessed with the righteousness of god. I was swimming in the sound, and I knew I was in love. This was not the first time I had fallen so deeply and quickly in love, nor do I expect it to be my last. I go through this same experience every time I buy a new guitar. I fall deeply and madly in love; I take every chance I can to stroke and caress my new lover until the new guitar smell is gone. Then I will change her strings and rub her down with instrument polish. However, she will eventually take her place within my harem of guitars, and my roving eye will be on the lookout for my next love.

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