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The Male Muse
The first time Andy destroyed my stereo came as a surprise. He booted the small Sony tower clear across the room, taking a chunk out of the drywall. The second time was forgetfulness on my part and the glass doors shattered and of the three CDs that had been inside it only one of them was ever playable again. The third time was entirely my fault, I deliberately goaded him into doing it and it wasn't much of a loss. The fourth and fifth times were simply because I couldn't get to the remote fast enough. Each time he paid for the replacement and apologised but I was always left fascinated by that outburst of rage.
Andy had written poetry since he was able to grasp a crayon, he seemed to be able to look at words the way engineers look at structures and understand the variety of components that bind them together inside. Andy could tell you the myriad of meanings for any word you'd care to mention and had been awarded a prestigious award by the Queen at one point for being the only man to ever work a rhyme to "orange" into one of his pieces. I forget what it was though.
It was inevitable that he and Jayne get together. She'd been playing showcases for what must have seemed her entire adult life. If it wasn't a showcase it was a coffee shop, if it wasn't a coffee shop she was playing a wedding or a children's party. She was very good with her guitar, but just didn't have that spark of originality that would set her apart from the rest of the single female accoustic guitar players out there. Until she met Andy, that was.
May. 3.2004