The Golden Guitar Pick

The amp made a low fizzling noise as he plugged in his Les Paul. He took careful measures to wrap the cord through his strap before slipping the guitar over his body. It rested against him perfectly, like the embrace of an old lover. In his fingers something glimmered, catching the reflection of light that bounced off the guitar's strings. She looked closely. He held a gold-colored pick firmly between his thumb and index finger.

From the stage, he saw her studying him and offered back a smile. He'd caught her. She blushed. The band behind him started playing, and from the second that golden pick kissed the strings, she wondered what a guy like him was doing in a crummy place like this. Her body involuntarily moved with the music that was filling the small space. The way he played that Les Paul reminded her of an ice skater.

Effortless, graceful, smooth.

He looked down at her every now and then, inspired to see her so moved by the music. He closed his blue eyes and let himself get caught in the experience, trying to identify with the girl. The crescendos, legatos, and ritardandos took him to a place he knew well--a subliminal alternate reality where everything was perfect. Life there existed as he imagined it had in the Garden of Eden.

Perfet peace, raw emotion, simply...

Music.

He couldn't stay. Soon, the song would end and he'd have to return to the dimly lit stage on which he was performing. The guys at the bar in the back would still be fighting, the waitress' posture still dipped just a bit too low into her hips, the sound of clinking glasses and raucous laughter still fighting with the volume of the band. Unfortunately, this was home. Maybe someday he'd find a way out, make it big. He'd be a star, and people would look at him with the same appreciation he saw in that girl's eyes. She gave him a glimmer of hope, and he wanted to thank her.

Searching the noisy crowd again for her face, he met her eyes, beckoned her over to the foot of the stage. Glancing around nervously, she made her way through the crowd. He held his arm out to her, his closed fingers holding something that seemed important. She opened her hand to catch what he was about to drop. "Thank you" was all he said as he emptied the content of his grasp. There in her hand she held a guitar pick. The corners were worn from the many notes it had played, and when the light caught it, she could just make out the inscrpition of "Ibanez Heavy."

He'd given her the golden guitar pick.