Daron's Guitar Chronicles Volume 12

1011 Ain't it Heavy

Ain't it Heavy

I woke up on the morning of February 22, 1992, having completed 24 revolutions around the sun. Actual birds were singing and Ziggy was in my arms. (He didn't have much choice: the bed was not large.)

It should have been idyllic. I lay still, waiting for my anxiety to float away so I could start enjoying the moment. I mean, some part of me was enjoying the moment, but I'd say over half of me was just undeniably anxious.

It was the kind of anxious that made me want to stay in bed, though, not jump up and do something. So I lay there, trying to pin my feelings on something specific but not really settling on anything.

Ziggy squirmed against me and made an inquisitive noise.

"I'm awake, if that's what you're asking."

He lifted his head. "Mm. But is anyone else?"

"Birds, yes, people, no, from the sound of things." I ran a hand down his bare back, his skin soft and smooth. "Claire doesn't know you're here."

"You think I should sneak out and come back in?"

"How'd you get here, anyway?"

He didn't answer the question. "I told you I was coming as soon as I could get away."

I didn't ask it again. "How's everyone in New York?"

"You'll see them soon enough if you keep your promise."

I swallowed a lump of dread. "Yeah."

He examined my face like he was about to ask me what was wrong, but he didn't ask, and I couldn't have answered anyway. "So should I sneak out and come back in?"

"You could just get dressed and act like you showed up this morning if she's not–" I broke off as I heard the screen door creak, and then the front door open. Booted feet crossed the bungalow floor. That had to be Flip. "Since she's still in bed."

"I should really shower before I put my clothes on," he pointed out. "Does it matter that I spent the night in your bed? We're not sixteen. And it's not like she doesn't know about us. Why are you making this out to be a big deal?"

"I just didn't want her to be startled is all." Right? I kissed him on the hair. "There's literally only room for one at a time in the shower here." It was a bit rustic, shall we say. At least it was indoors–just barely. "You want to go first? Take one of my towels."

"Sure." He climbed out of the bed and tiptoed exaggeratedly to the door, on the back of which were hanging two blue-gray towels on hooks. He wrapped one around his rather slim waist and slipped out.

There was a slapping sound. I think it was Ziggy and Flip high-fiving each other. I lay back and stared at the ceiling, my mind as blank as a TV channel back when they used to go off the air and just as full of static.

When Ziggy came back he was as slim-hipped and sly as ever, just damp. I sat up as he drew near. There was a red scratch on the back of his upper arm.

I reached for it. "What's that?"

"Hm?" He craned his neck to look at it. "Think you did that last night."

"Did I?"

He nodded. "Exhibit A in today's proof you're not yourself."

"Because I forgot I scratched you?"

"Because you forgot to trim your nails in the first place." He took my hands in his but didn't look at them, just held them. I knew he was right. My nails were a wreck. The left, which I normally kept short, were overlong and perhaps had some sharp edges, while the right, which I used to keep long and polished so I could play with them, I had trimmed down during hand rehab. Which I hadn't done in months.