Can you play? // Open

‘so can u play?’

‘yeah. guitar piano, just pick w/e u want.’

‘guitar! the corner by the supermarket 2morrow at 3pm?’

‘yeah, ill b there.’

Of course he wasn’t. It was 4.43pm, and Christy was starting to look like a homeless person begging for money you’d put into the guitar which lay in front of her. Of course he wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here at 3pm, and he wasn’t going to show up anytime soon, either. Scowling, she cursed herself for even trying to trust that stupid stuttery git to lend one of his loser friends to play with her. It’d been a dream of hers, to sit peacefully in public and play guitar and sing cozy aucustic songs, and have people leave her money because she actually sang really well. But she couldn’t play. So she’d gone down over her neighbor like a storm, and forced him to give her a number to a guy in his band who could help her. Was it that fucking stupid Christy had actually thought this was going to lead somewhere? A small start in her career, maybe even a nice little relation with a future bandmember? But no. 3pm had passed, she’d called him four times within half an hour, and he hadn’t picked up once. The last time she’d growled into his answering machine and possibly eliminated every chance of him coming at all. 

And now people were staring. A child had approached with a coin and had tried putting it into the guitar, but she’d growled ‘Are you mad?!’ at him, and sent him running. So she sat cross-legged, hands on each of her jeans-clad knees, alone and scowling, trying to refrain from smashing the guitar in front of her against the curb of the pavement. From time to time her ponytail swayed violently as she followed a staring person with her glare, making them hurry their steps.