When I was 16, I met a boy. He had brown eyes and brown hair and a crooked smile. He won me over from the start.
He was impulsive; he jumped at the chance to do things before I could figure out what was going on, and at the time, I thought that was endearing. He took chances. He was always yes yes yes, while I sat back and waited for direction. I loved that about him, that he had that energy, those vibes, that heart.
At the start of our relationship, I told him how much I loved the guitar. “It’s soft and sounds like comfort,” I told him. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play.” And that night, he went out and bought one. Took a picture of it and sent it to me. The photo was grainy, camera phones utter shit then. I called him. “Is that what I think it is?” He laughed. “Yeah, I wanna play for you. We can both learn together.”
We never did learn how to play that guitar. Over the years, we learned other things, instead, like how his impulsiveness was not something to romanticize. It ended up being our demise, me desperately holding him back in an attempt to get him to slow down, him already running full speed ahead toward the next person who wanted to love him. Just before we broke up, I found out he’d sold the guitar. I asked when he got rid of it. “I dunno, about a year ago, maybe,” he told me. “Didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s not like either of us ever played it, anyway.”
When I was 26, I met a man. Interestingly enough, he has the same name as the first boy, same color hair, same color eyes. His smile is different, though. It’s bright and welcoming and I catch myself staring at it far too much, already smiling back.He’s not impulsive. He takes the time to think, to plan. He’s logical and has a reason for everything. Sometimes, I feel like I can see him thinking, can see his brain working. It’s new to be with someone who moves slower than I do, who’s quieter than I am, who’s gentle and meticulous and warm. And for all the things I’ve learned and figured out, he might be one of my favorites.
He didn’t have to buy a guitar to win me over. It was just an added bonus that he already had one. Ones, actually. His living room holds seven or eight of them, all different kinds, including an electric one, plus a ukulele. I sit down on the couch and touch the strings of the one closest to me. “What’s this one’s name?” I ask. He shrugs. “I can’t name them, because then I’ll get attached to them. And if it breaks, I’ll be too sad to replace it.” I laugh, and he’s laughing, too. “He looks like he could be a Howard,” I say, pointing to the black one resting on its stand. He rolls his eyes and tells me I’m weird. Later on, the sheets pulled up to my chin and the lights off, I hear him whisper, “Maybe he could be a Howard. I’ll sleep on it and get back to you.”
He creates songs. Some with lyrics, some without. He covers some, too. He records them and sends them to me. I tell him that I’m his biggest fan. “I’ll fight for that title,” I say. He replies, “Well, the list isn’t too big. I only send music to my family and close friends.” I don’t know how to tell him I’m grateful I’m included on that small list of his. Instead, I request some of my favorite songs I want him to cover, because he asks what I’d like to hear next and he genuinely wants to play them for me.
“I can teach you to play, if you want me to,” he says. I want him to. I think back to that first boy who bought a cheap guitar with the hopes that he would magically learn how to play it, and he’d strum along to our songs. I think back to how quickly that magic went away. “You think you have the patience to do that?” I joke. His response is instant, and he’s serious. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
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cherrystreet: When I was 16, I met a boy. He had brown eyes and brown hair and a crooked smile. He...
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