Page 117 of Broken Lines

She giggles as she starts to strum the guitar, playing our progression over and over until she suddenly stops and grabs a pen. Before I can say anything, she’s grabbing the crumpled piece of paper that has my first few lines scrawled on it and adding two more, in her own handwriting, underneath.

I stare at them as she jerks back.

“Shit, sorry, I should have done that on another piece, or asked—”

“Hang on.”

I pull the page towards me, staring at the lines. My two, followed by hers.

“Forget what I just wrote. Cross it out. It’s dumb—”

“Will you fuckingstop?”

She winces, shying away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just—”

“What I mean is,” I growl, turning to her. “Will you stop fuckingdoubtingyourself?”

She swallows, blinking at me.

“Where this just came from?” I tap her lines on the paper with a finger. “I need more of it.”

She blushes. “Jackson—”

“Play it again.”

Heat blossoms up her neck. But her fingers find their placing on the neck of the guitar, and she slowly begins to play through the chord progression as I quietly sing the lines we just wrong.

Together.

We play through that same bit about five more times in a row before we both stop and look at each other.

“Whoa,” she breathes.

“Yeah.”

I nod, grabbing the pen and adding something that just came to me. And as we keep doing that—playing, stopping, adding, building—suddenly, an hour blurs by. And then two, and then three, until we’re lost in this hazy world where time and reality don’t really make sense. Where creative seems to hum off the both of us in a way I haven’t felt inyears.In over a decade.

I haven’t felt the muse or whatever just flow out of me like this since Iggy.

But the words and the lines keep pouring out. The hours tick by until it’s God knows what time in the morning. But there’s not stopping, and it’s like neither of uswantto stop.

We’re strumming through the second verse that leads into the swell of the chorus, trying to nail down the chord changes exactly, when I hear it. For a second, I think I’m imagining it. Or that it’s some weird acoustic effect of the room and how we’re sitting—overtones hovering in the air or something.

But it grows louder, and more purposeful. And when I glance up, I almost stop playing entirely.

Her eyes are closed tight, her face crumpled with emotion as we play into the first line of the chorus.

As we play, and shehums.

It’s not singing. She’s not saying the lyrics or even opening her mouth. And yet, the sounds the vibrate like silken strands from her throat are fuckingmagic.

I have to force myself to keep playing, else my stopping will jar her from whatever place the music has taken her—the place where she’s actually almost singing, in front of me. The chorus swells, as does her humming, until it peaks…

I immediately strum right into the last bits of the second verse again. She falters for a quarter second, but the reverie doesn’t break. Her eyes stay closed tight, like she’s locked and lost in that place. And suddenly, as we slide right back into the chorus, I watch magic happen.

Her mouth falls open as her face wrenches with the emotions of the words. And when the first notes break clear and sweet from her throat, I watch a tear trickle from her tightly shut eyes.

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