1. His Favourite Things
Naftali leaned over the guitar, stroking its taut strings and bathing the room in melody. Unsurprisingly, when we were done, his room reeked of stale beer, muted cologne and ass.
I didn’t mind.
It all withered away when he played. Delusional as it may sound, I’m his muse. When he came, the guitar lay in the corner in a decomposing zipped bag. I still remember the flaking on its wooden body.
Now its rosette, like my own, are weathered as he sits spreadeagled and butt naked serenading me. He is happier than he’s ever been, playing with his favorite things.
