Shop, in Hong Kong, somewhere (a rare memoir of unknown) – sold musical instruments and jet skis; machines, moulded white curves nosing at the windows, echoed those of outlandish pianos.
Took up the pale-tanned Washburn on a bench and cradled it, felt its lightness on the knee. Long head, bodice-like, a dozen hooks and eyes. Looked to her regarding the price, and okayed, OK’d.
Leaving; the 12-string flying in its cardboard triangle. Most strings, least played, beautiful still a thing to have, to be the keeper of. Booming wood, irascible wallflower. Funny under the fingertips. And never holds its tune.
© Steve Mitchell and Fisher Lane, 2013