Words Your Father Never Told You. Part 7.

I spent the day in my bed, sitting cross-legged, and strumming my old Gibson J-50. I got a beat, and I knew exactly what made me angry, but I just couldn’t put any meaningful words together.

Hours passed, and so did my sudden feeling that I could write a new masterpiece. I traded my guitar for the remote, and fixed myself on my bed so I would be able to sit that way, comfortably, for hours.
Tick, and silence, tick, more silence.
“Who the fuck is tossing stones at my window?” I asked the television set I happened to be facing.
Standing up from my bed was an odd feeling. I felt as if I hadn’t moved in hours, in all reality I hadn’t really moved, except to go to the bathroom once or twice. Legs stiff, and butt numb, I wobbled towards my window that faced my dead end street.
I half expected it to be James, begging for my forgiveness. I even had a slightest bit of hope that it was Brody’s ghost, yes, his ghost, not him. But it was a stranger, a complete stranger. A completely, handsome, and wonderful creature, that I could not recognize. I must be loosing all hope if I can’t remember meeting this mysterious man.