The Contradiction of Solitude(13)

It felt real. Maybe the realest thing I had ever said.

Layna nodded as if she understood exactly what I was talking about. As though she heard me.

Every interaction with this woman was beyond strange.

“Maybe you’d like to come see my stuff sometime,” I offered, my casual confidence disappearing under the weight of her gaze.

Layna chewed on her lip. Small, perfectly white teeth nibbling on plump, red flesh.

“Tonight. After I get off work,” she said, seeming to make an important decision in her acquiescence of my suggestion.

Typically I left the studio at six. But for her, I’d wait.

“Okay,” I agreed.

Layna inclined her head toward the book still in my hands. “Are you going to buy that?”

I handed it back to her. “I’ve had enough nothing in my life.”



Margie and Tate left two hours ago. Margie had asked three more times whether I’d go to the party later.

“Thanks, Marg, but you know I can’t,” I told her for what felt like the hundredth time. She looked unhappy. I kissed the top of her head and patted her back. “Go get yourself a piece of ass and put a smile on that beautiful face.”

She had flushed, and I could tell she didn’t know whether to be upset at my dismissal, or flattered at my compliment. But I knew that she would get over her hurt feelings and that we would be fine. I was good at keeping friends.

Until my life didn’t allow for them anymore.

George wasn’t surprised when I told him I’d be staying late. It wasn’t unusual for me to burn the midnight oil working on a project.

As I sat in the darkened studio, smoothing the edges of the new fret board I had just finished, I felt as though I were waiting on the edge of the world. It was an odd sense of anticipation and disquiet that I couldn’t place or understand.

I also realized I had never asked Layna when she got off work. She hadn’t offered any details, and I hadn’t thought to ask for them.

I may very well be sitting in the shop all night waiting on a girl who never told me when she’d be coming.

I looked at the time on my phone. It was just after nine. I stood up and stretched my back, hearing the satisfying pop of joints and bone.

I picked up the discarded chip bags and the remnants of the burrito I had had for dinner. Tossing them in the trash as I walked out into the main store. Rolling my head from side to side, I rubbed at my neck, noting how sore I felt from being bent over my workbench for the last few hours.

Then I stopped in my tracks.

“Shit,” I all but yelled.

Layna was already there, looking up at the guitars lining the walls. I hadn’t heard her come in. She had slipped in silently without my noticing.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, her voice ever soft, glancing over her shoulder.

“No. I just didn’t hear you come in. Have you been here long?” I asked, tossing my trash in the bin behind the register.

She was studying one of the guitars intently.

“This is one of yours,” she said, lifting her finger and letting it hover over the shiny wood. She didn’t ask, she stated.

“Yeah, it is. It’s one I just completed last week actually.” I was surprised she could know that this particular instrument was of my creation. She didn’t know me. She had no idea of my style. Yet somehow, someway, she knew.

It was eerie. It was flattering.

I was unsettled.

The acoustic guitar she indicated had taken nearly three weeks to complete. I had meticulously sanded down the rich rosewood that composed its body until it sheened. The Canadian spruce top shone in the dark. I was proud of it. More so than any of the guitars I had made before.

There was something personal about this piece. I felt as though I had bled myself dry when I had made it, giving it everything I had. There were elements of the real Elian within the guitar that were inconsequential to anyone but me.

I hadn’t wanted to put up for sale. I had even argued with George about it.

“My shop, my product. You used the tools I own to make it, it belongs to me. This will make us both a pretty penny. Stop being such a wimp about it,” he had barked, annoyed when I suggested we keep it as a showpiece instead.

I had wanted to hit him. Smash his face into a dozen, bloody pieces. But I had swallowed my fury and backed off.

It’s what Elian Beyer would do.

The slopes and lines were reminiscent of the guitar my sister had left behind. Her favorite. The same guitar I kept in its case beneath my bed to this day. The guitar that hadn’t been played since I was twelve years old.

I had fashioned the headstock from a recognizable symbol.

A nautical star.

The same symbol I now had tattooed on the center of my back for reasons that were mine and mine alone.

“It’s beautiful,” she said genuinely. She carefully traced the line of the star, barely touching.

Her appreciation caused something warm to unfurl in my gut. Hot and liquid it spread with the beat of my heart through my veins.

“Do you play?” I asked, noticing the covetous way she regarded the guitar.

“Never,” she said quietly, her fingers recoiling from the wood as though stung.

“Would you like to hold it?” I asked, reaching around her to lift the guitar off its wall stand. My front pressed, ever so slightly, into her back. She stiffened instantly.